S1TY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT    LOS  ANGELES 


THE  GIFT  OF 

MAY  TREAT  MORRISON 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

ALEXANDER   F  MORRISON 


J 


fl 


jj»  ■ 


is  ■ 


Listening  to  the  Wiij>    Birds   Singing 


I'hotogravurt 


Poetical   Dorics 


OF 


Robert   Burns 


aBiti)  a  fftemoir 


Hn  Cwo  Volumes 
Del.  i. 


['ANDY,     Ulll    I    I    1    K     S     I   (  • 
I  >  K  SVKR,   C  O  I . . 


CONTENTS 

OF 

THE    FIRST   VOLUME. 


*#*  Italic  letters  indicate  the  publication  devoted  to  his  writ- 
ft  ings,  in  which,  as  far  as  ascertained,  the  various  compositions  of 
Burns  were  first  included.  The  poems  and  songs  marked  a 
composed  the  first  edition,  published  at  Kilmarnock  in  1786  ; 
those  marked  b  were  added  in  the  second  edition,  published  at 
•^  Edinburgh  in  1787  ;  those  marked  c  were  added  in  the  edition  of 
~_  1793.  These,  with  certain  pieces  which  appeared  in  the  early 
;§  volumes  of  Johnson's  Scots  Musical  Museum,  and  Thomson's 
Select  Melodies  of  Scotland,  were  all  that  Burns  himself  com- 
mitted to  print ;  the  rest,  as  well  as  his  letters,  have  been  pub- 
lished since  his  death.  In  this  list  of  contents,  the  pieces  pub- 
lished in  Johnson's  Museum  are  marked  d ;  the  poems  presented 
in  Currie's  first  edition  of  the  poet's  works  in  1800  are  marked 
c  ;  those  added  in  the  second  edition,  /,-  those  published  by 
Stewart  of  Glasgow  in  1S01,  g  ;  those  in  Cromek's  Reliques  of 
Burns,  1S0S,  h  ;  those  in  Lockhart's  Life  of  Burns,  i ;  those  in 
Cunningham's  edition,  1834,,/;  those  in  Hogg  and  Motherwell's 
edition,  1834-30,  k  ;  those  in  the  People's  Edition  of  Messrs. 
Chambers,  1838-40,  / ;  those  in  Blackie's  edition,  1S46,  m  ;  those 
added  in  the  present  work,  n ;  an  asterisk  being  given  in  certain 
cases  where  it  is  ascertained  that  the  poem  was  previously  sent 
forth  fugitively. 

I'AGF, 

Memoir  of  the  Life  of  Robert  Burns 1' 

Dr.  Currie's  Description  of  Burns -2'J 

Preface  to  the  First  Edition  of  Burns's  Poems 33 

Dedication  prefixed  to  the  Second  Edition 37 


4Tfc.  *  ""KJ   ■   :■    '-J*  f 


IV  CONTENTS. 

PAQI 

Song  —  Handsome  Nell d  41 

Song  —  I  dreamed  I  lay , 42 

Song  —  My  Nannie,  0 b  43 

Song  —  0  Tibbie,  I  hae  seen  the  Day d  44 

The  Torbolton  Lasses »  46 

Verses  on  the  Ronalds  of  the  Bennals *  n  47 

Song  —  On  Cessnock  Banks h  49 

Winter;  a  Dirge a  52 

Prayer  written  under  the   Pressure  of  violent    An- 
guish     b  53 

Verses  from  a  Memorandum  Book 53 

Song  —  My  Father  was  a  Fanner 54 

Death  and  Dying  Words  of  Poor  Mailie a  57 

Poor  Mailie's  Elegy 59 

John  Barleycorn ;  a  Ballad b  61 

Song  —  Mary  Morrison e  61 

Song  —  The  Rigs  o'  Barley a  65 

Song  —  Montgomery's  Peggy k  66 

Song  —  Composed  in  August  (Now  westlin  winds)  a  67 

Inscription  on  the  Tombstone  of  William  Burness  ...  68 

A  Prayer  in  the  Prospect  of  Death a  69 

Stanzas  on  the  same  Occasion b  70 

The  First  Psalm 6  71 

The  First  Six  Verses  of  the  Ninetieth  Psalm 6  72 

Epistle  to  John  Rankine a  73 

Song — Green  grow  the  Rashes b  76 

Song  —  The  Cure  for  al'  Cure 6  77 

Song  —  Though  cruel    Fate  should  bid  us  part 78 

One  Night  as  I  did  wander 78 

Song  —  Robin 79 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Robert  Ruisseaux 80 

Song  —  The  Belles  of  Mauchline j  81 

Song  —  When  first  I  came  to  Stewart  Kyle h  81 

Song  —  Though  fickle  Fortune  has  deceived  me. . .  h  82 

Song— Oh  raging  Fortune's  withering  Blast  . .    .   h  82 


CONTENTS.  v 

PAQI 

Epistle  to  Davie a    83 

Death  and  Dr.  Hornbook b    88 

Epistle  to  J.  Lapraik o    95 

Second  Epistle  to  J.  Lapraik o    99 

Epistle  to  John  Goudie  of  Kilmarnock g  103 

The  Twa  Herds ;  or,  the  Holy  Tulzie g  105 

Epistle  to  William  Simpson a  108 

Holy  Willie's  Prayer g  115 

Epitaph  on  Holy  Willie 118 

Third  Epistle  to  John  Lapraik *  h  119 

Epistle  to  the  Rev.  John  M'Math h  121 

Verses  to  a  Mouse a  125 

Halloween a  127 

Second  Epistle  to  Davie *  f  135 

Song  —  The  Braes  o'  Ballochmyle d  137 

Man  was  made  to  mourn a  138 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night a  141 

Address  to  the  Deil a  149 

On  John  Dove 154 

The  Jolly  Beggars ;  a  Cantata g  154 

Epistle  to  James  Smith a  169 

The  Vision a  175 

A  Winter  Night. b  185 

Song  —  Young  Peggy  blooms g  189 

Scotch  Drink a  190 

Earnest  Cry  and  Prayer  to  the  Scotch  Representa- 
tives     a  195 

The  Auld  Farmer's  New-Year  Morning  Salutation 

to  his  Auld  Mare  Maggie a  202 

The  Twa  Dogs;  a  Tale a  20(i 

To  a  Louse a  215 

The  Ordination a  217 

Address  to  the  Unco  Guid,  or  the  Rigidly  Righteoui  6  221 

The  Inventory c  224 

Verier-;  to  Mr.  John  Kennedy j  226 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Verses    inscribed    in  a  Copy  of  Miss    H.  Morc's 

Works *j  227 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy a  228 

Lament  occasioned  by  the  unfortunate  Issue  of  a 

Friend's  Amour a  230 

Despondency ;  an  Ode a  233 

To  Ruin a  235 

Song  —  Again  rejoicing  Nature  sees b  236 

Note  to  Gavin  Hamilton h  238 

Epistle  to  a  young  Friend a  239 

Song  —  Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton 243 

Song  —  The  Highland  Lassie a  244 

A  Prayer  for  Man- a  245 

Song  —  Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary? e  246 

Song  —  From  thee,  Eliza a  247 

Song  —  Though  cruel  Fate 247 

Address  of  Beelzebub *j  248 

A  Dream  —  "  Guid  Mornin'  to  your  Majesty  "  . . . .  b  250 

The  Holy  Fair a  254 

On  a  Scotch  Bard,  gone  to  the  West  Indies a  263 

A  Bard's  Epitaph a  265 

Dedication  to  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq a  266 

Song  —  Farewell  to  the  Brethren  of  St.  James's 

Lodge,  Torbolton a  270 

On  a  Procession  of  the  St.  James's  Lodge 272 

Song  —  The  Sons  of  Old  Killie 272 

Song  —  The  Bonnie  Lass  o'  Ballochmyle e  273 

To  Mr.  John  Kennedy j  274 

The  Farewell *  I  275 

Lines  written  on  a  Bank-note „*j"  276 

Written  on  a  Blank  Leaf  of  his  Poems *f  277 

Verses  written  under  violent  Grief I  277 

The  Calf b  278 

Willie  Chalmers j  279 

Tarn  Samson's  Elegy b  281 


CONTENTS.  vu 

PAOE 

To  Mr.  M' Adam  of  Craigengillan h  285 

Verses  written  at  Mr.  Lawrie's b  2st> 

Song  —  The  gloomy  Night  is  gathering  fast b  287 

The  Brigs  of  Ayr b  2S3 

Lines  on  meeting  with  Basil,  Lord  Daer «  297 

Epistle  to  Major  Logan j  209 

Expostulation  on  a  Rebuke  administered  by  Mrs. 

Lawrie 302 

Address  to  Edinburgh b  302 

Ode  on  the  Chevalier's  Birthday 305 

To  Miss  Logan,  with  Beattie's  Poems b  306 

Song  —  Bonnie  Doon k  300 

The  Gudewife  of  Wauchope-House  to  Burns 307 

Burns  to  the  Gudewife  of  Wauchope-House *f  308 

William  Smellie 311 

Rattlin',  roarin'  "Willie  311 

Inscription  for  the  Grave  of  Fergusson e  312 

Verses  under  the  Portrait  of  Fergusson h  312 

Verses  intended  to  be  written  below  a  noble  Earl's 

Picture n  312 

Fragment — The  American   War   ("When  Guild- 
ford good")  b  313 

To  a  Haggis *  b  316 

Song —  Extempore  in  the  Court  of  Session h  318 

Prologue  at  Mr.  Woods's  Benetit .9  318 

Verses  to  Creech  (li  Willie  's  Awa'  "  ) It  320 

Epigram,  on  Incivility  at  Inverary g  323 

Epigram,  on  Kindness  shown  in  the  Highlands. . . .   e  323 

Verses  on  the  Death  of  John  M'Leod,  Esq c  323 

On  the  Death  of  Sir  James  Hunter  Blair *f  325 

To  Miss  Ferrier n  327 

Verses  iu  the  Inn  at  Kenmore c  328 

Song—  The  Birks  of  Aberfeldy d  329 

Humble  Petition  of  Bruar  Water c  3;i0 

Verses  at  Fall  of  Fyers c  333 


VlU  CONTENTS. 

PAGO 

Song  —  Castle-Gordon e  334 

Song  —  The  bonny  Lass  of  Albany »  335 

On  scaring  some  Water-fowl  in  Loch  Tunt c  336 

Song  —  Blithe  wa3  she d  337 

Song  —  The  Rose-bud d  338 

To  Miss  Cruikshank,  a  very  young  Lady c  339 

Song  —  Where  braving  angry  Winter's  Storms. . .  d  340 

Song  — My  Peggy's  Face d  341 

Address  to  Mr.  William  Tytler e  342 

Song  —  On  a  young  Lady  residing  on  the  Banks 

of  the  Devon,  etc , . . .  d  343 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  President  Dundas *j  344 

Song  —  A  Farewell  to  Clarinda d  346 

Contributions  to  the  Second  Volume  of  Johnson's 
Museum  — 

Whistle  and  I  '11  come  to  you,  my  Lad 347 

Macpherson's  Farewell d  347 

Stay,  my  Charmer d  348 

Strathallan's  Lament d  349 

The  young  Highland  Rover d  350 

Raving  Winds  around  her  blowing d  351 

Musing  on  the  roaring  Ocean d  351 

Bonn}'  Peggy  Alison d  352 

To  Clarinda,  with  a  Pair  of  Drinking-Glasses  . . . .  h  353 

Song  —  The  Chevalier's  Lament e  354 

Epistle  to  Hugh  Parker j  355 

Song  —  I  love  my  Jean  d  356 

Appendix:  Additional  Stanzas  of  "  The  Vision  "     359 
Song  in  the  Character  of  a  ruined  Far- 
mer       302 


MEMOIR 


LIFE   OF   EOBEET   BURNS. 


EOBERT  BURNS,  the  national  bard  of  Scok 
;  land,  was  born  on  the  25th  of  January,  1759, 
In  a  clay-built  cottage  about  two  miles  south  of  the 
town  of  Ayr.  He  was  the  eldest  son  of  William 
B uraes,  or  Burness,  who  at  the  period  of  Robert's 
birth  was  gardener  and  overseer  to  a  gentleman 
of  small  estate ;  but  resided  on  a  few  acres  of 
land  which  he  had  on  lease  from  another  person. 
The  father  was  a  man  of  strict  religious  princi- 
ples, and  also  distinguished  for  that  penetration 
and  knowledge  of  mankind  which  was  afterwards 
so  conspicuous  in  his  son.  The  mother  of  th< 
poet  was  likewise  a  very  sagacious  woman,  and 
possessed  an  inexhaustible  store  of  ballads  and 
legendary  tales,  with  which  she  nourished  the  in- 
'i'-int  imagination  of  him  whose  own  productions 
were   destined    to  excel   them   all. 

These  worthy  persons  labored  diligently  for  the 
support  of  an  increasing  family;  nor,  in  the  midst 
of  harassing  struggles,  did  they  neglect  the  mental 
improvement  of  their  offspring  ;  a  characteristic 
of  Scottish  patents,  even  under  the    most   depress- 


10       MEMOIR   OF   THE  LIFE   OF  BUBN&. 

ing  circumstances.  In  his  sixth  year  Robert  was 
put  under  the  tuition  of  one  Campbell,  and  sub- 
sequently under  Mr.  John  Murdoch,  a  very  faith- 
ful and  painstaking  teacher.  With  Mr.  Murdoch 
he  remained  for  a  few  years,  and  was  accurately 
instructed  in  the  first  principles  of  composition. 
The  poet  and  his  brother  Gilbert  were  the  aptest 
pupils  in  the  school,  and  were  generally  at  the 
head  of  the  class.  Mr.  Murdoch,  in  afterwards 
recording  the  impressions  which  the  two  brothers 
made  on  him,  says,  "  Gilbert  always  appeared  to 
me  to  possess  a  more  lively  imagination,  and  to  be 
more  of  the  wit,  than  Robert.  I  attempted  to 
teach  them  a  little  church-music.  Here  they  were 
left  far  behind  by  all  the  rest  of  the  school.  Rob- 
ert's ear  in  particular  was  remarkably  dull,  and 
his  voice  untunable.  It  was  long  before  I  could 
get  them  to  distinguish  one  tune  from  another. 
Robert's  countenance  was  generally  grave,  and  ex- 
pressive of  a  serious,  contemplative,  and  thought- 
ful mind.  Gilbert's  face  said,  Mirth,  with  thee  1 
mean  to  live  ;  and  certainly,  if  any  person  who 
knew  the  two  boys  had  been  asked  which  of  them 
was  the  most  likely  to  court  the  muses,  he  would 
never  have  guessed  that  Robert  had  a  propensity 
of  that  kind." 

Besides  the  tuition  of  Mr.  Murdoch,  Burns  re- 
ceived instructions  from  his  father  in  writing  and 
arithmetic.  Under  their  joint  care  he  made  rapid 
progress,  and  was  remarkable  lor  the  ease  with 
which  he  committed  devotional  poetry  to  memory. 
The  following  extract  from  his  letter  to  Dr.  Moore 
in   1787  is  interesting,   from   the    light   which    it 


MEMOIR   OF  THE  LIFE   OF  BURNS.       11 

throws  upon  his  progress  as  a  scholar,  and  on  the 
formation  of  his  character  as  a  poet :  —  "At  those 
years,"  says  he,  "  I  was  by  no  means  a  favourite 
with  anybody.  I  was  a  good  deal  noted  for  a  re- 
tentive memory,  a  stubborn  sturdy  something  in 
my  disposition,  and  an  enthusiastic  idiot  piety.  I 
say  idiot  piety,  because  I  was  then  but  a  child. 
Though  it  cost  the  schoolmaster  some  thrashings, 
I  made  an  excellent  scholar  ;  and  by  the  time  I 
was  ten  or  eleven  years  of  age,  I  was  a  critic  in 
substantives,  verbs,  and  particles.  In  my  infant 
and  boyish  days,  too,  I  owed  much  to  an  old  wom- 
an who  resided  in  the  family,  remarkable  for  her 
ignorance,  credulity,  and  superstition.  She  had. 
I  suppose,  the  largest  collection  in  the  country,  of 
tales  and  songs  concerning  devils,  ghosts,  fairies, 
brownies,  witches,  warlocks,  spunkies,  kelpies,  elf- 
candles,  dead-lights,  wraiths,  apparitions,  cantrips, 
giants,  enchanted  towers,  dragons,  and  other  trump- 
ery. This  cultivate;!  the  latent  seeds  of  poetry ; 
but  had  so  strong  an  effect  on  my  imagination, 
that  to  this  hour,  in  ray  nocturnal  rambles,  I  some- 
times keep  a  sharp  lookout  in  suspicious  places ; 
and  though  nobody  can  be  more  sceptical  than  I 
am  in  such  matters,  yet  it  often  takes  an  effort  of 
philosophy  to  shake  off  these  idle  terrors.  The 
earliest  composition  that  I  recollect  taking  pleas- 
ure in  was  The  Vision  of  Mirza,  and  a  hymn  of 
Addison's,  beginning,  How  are  thy  servants  blest, 
0  Lord  !  I  particularly  remember  one  half-stanza 
which  was  music  to  my  boyish  ear  — 

For  though  nn  dreadful  whirls  we  hung 
High  mi  till-  broken  wave.  — 


12       MEMOIR    OF   THE   LIFE   OF  BURNS. 

I  met  with  these  pieces  in  Mason's  English  Col- 
lection, one  of  my  school-books.  The  first  two 
books  I  ever  read  in  private,  and  which  gave  me 
more  pleasure  than  any  two  books  I  ever  read 
since,  were,  The  Life  of  Hannibal,  and  The  His- 
tory of  Sir  William  Wallace.  Hannibal  gave  my 
young  ideas  such  a  turn,  that  I  used  to  strut  in 
raptures  up  and  down  after  the  recruiting  drum 
and  bagpipe,  and  wish  myself  tall  enough  to  be  a 
soldier ;  while  the  story  of  Wallace  poured  a  tide 
of  Scottish  prejudice  into  my  veins,  which  will 
boil  along  there  till  the  flood-gates  of  life  shut  in 
eternal  rest." 

Mr.  Murdoch's  removal  from  Mount  Oliphant 
deprived  Burns  of  his  instructions ;  but  they  were 
still  continued  by  the  father  of  the  bard.  About 
the  age  of  fourteen  he  was  sent  to  school  every 
alternate  week  for  the  improvement  of  his  writing. 
In  the  meanwhile  he  was  busily  employed  upon 
the  operations  of  the  farm ;  and,  at  the  age  of 
fifteen,  was  considered  as  the  principal  laborer 
upon  it.  About  a  year  after  this  he  gained  three 
weeks  of  respite,  which  he  spent  with  his  old  tutor 
Murdoch  at  Ayr,  in  revising  the  English  grammar, 
and  in  studying  the  French  language,  in  which 
he  made  uncommon  progress.  Ere  his  sixteenth 
year  elapsed,  he  had  considerably  extended  his 
reading.  The  vicinity  of  Mount  Oliphant  to  Ayr 
afforded  him  facilities  for  gratifying  what  had  now 
become  a  passion.  Among  the  books  which  he 
had  perused  were  some  plays  of  Shakspeare,  Pope, 
the  works  of  Allan  Ramsay,  and  a  collection  of 
Bongs  whidi  constituted  his  vade-mecum.    "  I  pored 


MEMOIR   OF   THE  LIFE   OF  BURNS.       13 

over  them,"  says  he,  "  driving  my  cart  or  walking 
to  labour,  song  by  song,  verse  by  verse,  carefully 
noticing  the  true  tender  or  sublime  from  affecta- 
tion and  fustian."  So  early  did  he  evince  his  at- 
tachment to  the  lyric  muse,  in  which  he  was  des- 
tined to  surpass  all  who  have  gone  before  or 
succeeded  him. 

At  this  period  the  family  removed  to  Lochlea, 
in  the  parish  of  Torbolton.  Some  time  before, 
however,  he  had  made  his  first  attempt  in  poetry. 
It  was  a  song  addressed  to  a  rural  beauty  about 
his  own  age ;  and  though  possessing  no  great 
merits  as  a  whole,  it  contains  some  lines  and 
ideas  which  would  have  done  honor  to  bim  at 
any  age.  After  the  removal  to  Lochlea  his  lit- 
erary zeal  slackened,  for  he  was  thus  cut  off  from 
those  acquaintances  whose  conversation  stimulated 
his  powers,  and  whose  kindness  supplied  him  with 
Dooks.  For  about  three  years  after  this  period 
he  was  busily  employed  upon  the  farm ;  but  at 
intervals  he  paid  his  addresses  to  the  poetic  muse, 
and  with  no  common  success.  The  summer  of 
his  nineteenth  year  was  spent  in  the  study  of 
mensuration,  surveying,  etc.  at  a  small  seaport 
town,  a  good  distance  from  home.  He  returned  to 
his  father's  considerably  improved.  "  My  read- 
ing," says  he,  "  was  enlarged  with  the  very  im- 
portant addition  of  Thomson's  and  Shenstone's 
works.  I  had  seen  human  nature  in  a  new  pha- 
sis ;  and  I  engaged  several  of  my  school-fellows 
to  keep  up  a  literary  correspondence  with  me. 
This  improved  me  in  composition.  I  had  met 
with  a  collection  of  letters  by  the  wits  of  Quee» 


14     MEMOIR  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 

Anne's  reign,  and  I  pored  over  them  most  de- 
voutly ;  I  kept  copies  of  any  of  my  own  letters 
that  pleased  me ;  and  a  comparison  between  them 
and  the  composition  of  most  of  my  correspondents 
flattered  my  vanity.  I  carried  this  whim  so  far, 
that  though  I  had  not  three  farthings'  worth  of 
business  in  the  world,  yet  almost  every  post  brought 
me  as  many  letters  as  if  I  had  been  a  broad  plod- 
ding son  of  daybook  and  ledger." 

His  mind,  peculiarly  susceptible  of  tender  im- 
pressions, was  continually  the  slave  of  some  rustic 
charmer.  In  the  "  heat  and  whirlwind  of  his 
love,"  he  generally  found  relief  in  poetry,  by 
which,  as  by  a  safety-valve,  his  turbulent  passions 
were  allowed  to  have  vent.  He  formed  the  reso- 
lution of  entering  the  matrimonial  state ;  but  his 
circumscribed  means  of  subsistence  as  a  farmer 
preventing  his  taking  that  step,  he  resolved  on 
becoming  a  flax-dresser,  for  winch  purpose  he 
removed  to  the  town  of  Irvine  in  1781.  The 
speculation  turned  out  unsuccessful ;  for  the  shop 
catching  fire,  was  burnt,  and  the  poet  returned  to 
his  father  without  a  sixpence.  During  his  stay 
at  Irvine  he  had  met  with  Ferguson's  poems. 
This  circumstance  was  of  some  importance  to 
Burns,  for  it  roused  his  poetic  powers  from  the 
torpor  into  which  they  had  fallen,  and  in  a  great 
measure  finally  determined  the  Scottish  character 
of  his  poetry.  He  here  also  contracted  some 
friendships,  which  he  himself  says  did  him  mis- 
chief; and,  oy  his  brother  Gilbert's  account,  from 
this  date  there  was  a  serious  change  in  his  con- 
duct.    The  venerable  and  excellent  parent  of  the 


MEMOIR    OF   THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS.     15 

poet  died  soon  after  his  son's  return.  The  sup- 
port of  the  family  now  devolving  upon  Burns,  in 
conjunction  with  his  brother  lie  took  a  sub-lease 
of  the  farm  of  Mossgiel,  in  the  parish  of  Mauch- 
line.  The  four  years  which  he  resided  upon  this 
farm  were  the  most  important  of  his  life.  It  was 
here  he  felt  that  nature  had  designed  him  for  a 
poet ;  and  here,  accordingly,  his  genius  began  to 
develop  its  energies  in  those  strains  which  will 
make  his  name  familiar  to  all  future  times,  the 
admiration  of  every  civilized  country,  and  the 
glory  and  boast  of  his  own. 

The  vigor  of  Burns's  understanding,  and  the 
keenness  of  his  wit,  as  displayed  more  particu- 
larly at  Masonic  meetings  and  debating  clubs,  of 
which  he  formed  one  at  Mauchline,  began  to 
spread  his  fame  as  a  man  of  uncommon  endow- 
ments. He  now  could  number  as  his  acquaint- 
ance several  clergymen,  and  also  some  gentlemen 
of  substance  ;  amongst  whom  was  Mr.  Gavin 
Hamilton,  writer  in  Mauchline,  one  of  his  earliest 
patrons.  One  circumstance  more  than  any  other 
contributed  to  increase  his  notoriety.  "  Polemical 
divinity,"  says  he  to  Dr.  Moore  in  1787,  "about 
this  time  was  putting  the  country  half  mad  ;  and 
I,  ambitious  of  shining  in  conversation-parties  on 
Sundays,  at  funerals,  etc.,  used  to  puzzle  Calvin- 
ism with  so  much  heat  and  indiscretion,  that  I 
raised  a  hue-and-cry  of  heresy  against  me,  which 
has  not  ceased  to  this  hour."  The  farm  which  he 
possessed  belonged  to  the  Earl  of  Loudon,  but 
the  brothers  held  it  in  sub-lease  from  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton.    This  gentleman  was  at  open  feud  with  one 


16     MEMOIR  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 

of  the  ministers  of  Mauchline,  who  was  a  rigid 
Calvinist.  Mr.  Hamilton  maintained  opposite 
tenets ;  and  it  is  not  matter  of  surprise  that  the 
young  farmer  should  have  espoused  his  cause,  and 
brought  all  the  resources  of  his  genius  to  bear 
upon  it.  The  result  was  The  Holy  Fair,  The 
Ordination,  Holy  Willie's  Prayer,  and  other  sat- 
ires, as  much  distinguished  for  their  coarse  severity 
and  bitterness  as  for  their  genius. 

The  applause  which  greeted  these  pieces  em- 
boldened the  poet,  and  encouraged  him  to  pro- 
ceed. In  his  Life,  by  his  brother  Gilbert,  a  very 
interesting  account  is  given  of  the  occasions  which 
gave  rise  to  the  poems,  and  the  chronological  order 
in  which  they  were  produced.  The  exquisite  pa- 
thos and  humor,  the  strong  manly  sense,  the  maa- 
terry  command  of  felicitous  language,  the  graphic 
power  of  delineating  scenery,  manners,  and  inci- 
dents, which  appear  so  conspicuously  in  his  various 
poems,  could  not  fail  to  call  forth  the  admiration 
of  those  who  were  favored  with  a  perusal  of  them. 
But  the  clouds  of  misfortune  were  gathering  darkly 
above  the  head  of  him  who  was  thus  giving  de- 
light to  a  large  and  widening  circle  of  friends. 
The  farm  of  Mossgiel  proved  a  losing  concern ; 
and  an  amour  with  Jane  Armour,  afterwards  Mrs. 
Burns,  had  assumed  so  serious  an  aspect,  that  he 
at  first  resolved  to  fly  from  the  scene  of  his  dis- 
grace and  misery.  One  trait  of  his  character, 
however,  must  be  mentioned.  Before  taking  any 
steps  for  his  departure,  he  met  Jane  Armour  by 
appointment,  and  gave  into  her  hands  a  written 
acknowledgment  of  marriage,  which,  when  pro- 


MEMOIR    OF   THE  LIFE   OF  BURNS.     17 

duced  by  a  person  in  her  situation,  is,  according 
to  the  Scots  law,  to  be  accepted  as  legal  evidence 
of  an  irregular  marriage  having  really  taken 
place.  This  Jane  burned  at  the  persuasion  of 
her  father,  who  was  adverse  to  a  marriage ;  and 
Burns,  thus  wounded  in  the  two  most  powerful 
feelings  of  his  mind,  his  love  and  pride,  was 
driven  almost  to  insanity.  Jamaica  was  his  des- 
tination ;  but  as  he  did  not  possess  the  money 
necessary  to  defray  the  expense  of  his  passage 
out,  he  resolved  to  publish  some  of  his  best  po- 
ems, in  order  to  raise  the  requisite  sum.  These 
views  were  warmly  promoted  by  some  of  his  more 
opulent  friends  ;  and  a  sufficiency  of  subscribers 
having  been  procured,  one  of  the  finest  volumes 
of  poetry  that  ever  appeared  in  the  world  issued 
from  the  provincial  press  of  Kilmarnock. 

It  is  hardly  possible  to  imagine  with  what  eager 
admiration  and  delight  they  were  everywhere 
received.  They  possessed  in  an  eminent  degree 
all  those  qualities  which  invariably  contribute  to 
render  any  literary  work  quickly  and  perma- 
nently popular.  They  were  written  in  a  phrase- 
ology of  which  all  the  powers  were  universally 
felt,  and  which,  being  at  once  antique,  familiar, 
and  now  rarely  written,  was  therefore  fitted  to 
serve  all  the  dignified  and  picturesque  uses  of 
poetry,  without  making  it  unintelligible.  The 
imagery  and  the  sentiments  were  at  once  natural, 
impressive,  and  interesting.  Those  topics  of  sat- 
ire  and  scandal  in  which  the  rustic  delights  ;  that 
humorous  imitation  of  character,  and  that  witty 
association  of  ideas  familiar  and   striking,  yet  not 

VOL.  I.  2 


18     MEMOIR   OF   THE  LIFE   OF  BURNS. 

naturally  allied  to  one  another,  ■which  has  force 
to  shake  his  sides  with  laughter ;  those  fancies  of 
superstition,  at  which  one  still  wonders  and  trem- 
bles ;  those  affecting  sentiments  and  images  of 
true  religion,  which  are  at  once  dear  and  awful 
to  the  heart ;  were  all  represented  by  Burns  with 
the  magical  power  of  true  poetry.  Old  and 
young,  high  and  low,  grave  and  gay,  learned 
and  ignorant,  all  were  alike  surprised  and  trans- 
ported. 

In  the  mean  time,  a  few  copies  of  these  fasci- 
nating poems  found  their  way  to  Edinburgh,  and 
having  been  read  to  Dr.  Blacklock,  obtained  his 
warmest  approbation ;  and  he  advised  the  author 
to  repair  to  Edinburgh.  Burns  lost  no  time  in 
complying  with  this  request  ;  and  accordingly, 
towards  the  end  of  the  year  1786,  he  set  out  for 
the  capital,  where  he  was  received  by  Dr.  Black- 
lock  with  the  most  flattering  kindness,  and  intro- 
duced to  every  person  of  taste  among  that  excel- 
lent man's  friends.  Multitudes  now  A'ied  with 
each  other  in  patronizing  the  rustic  poet.  Those 
who  possessed  at  once  true  taste  and  ardent  phi- 
lanthropy were  soon  united  in  his  praise  ;  those 
who  were  disposed  to  favor  any  good  thing  belong- 
ing to  Scotland,  purely  because  it  was  Scottish 
gladly  joined  the  cry  ;  while  those  who  had  hearts 
and  understandings  to  be  charmed  without  know- 
ing why,  when  they  saw  their  native  customs, 
manners,  and  language  made  the  subjects  and 
the  materials  of  poesy,  could  not  suppress  that 
impulse  of  feeling  which  struggled  to  declare 
itself  in  favor  of  Burns. 


MEMOIR   OF  TIIE  LIFE   OF  BURNS.     19 

Thus  did  Burns,  ere  he  had  been  many  weeks 
in  Edinburgh,  find  himself  the  object  of  universal 
curiosity,  favor,  admiration,  and  fondness.  He 
was  sought  after,  courted  with  attentions  the 
most  respectful  and  assiduous,  feasted,  flattered, 
caressed,  and  treated  by  all  ranks  as  the  great 
boast  of  his  country,  whom  it  was  scarcely  pos- 
sible to  honor  and  reward  in  a  degree  equal  to 
his  merits. 

A  new  edition  of  his  poems  was  called  for ;  and 
the  public  mind  was  directed  to  the  subject  by 
Henry  Mackenzie,  who  dedicated  a  paper  in  the 
Lounger  to  a  commendatory  notice  of  the  poet 
This  circumstance  will  ever  be  remembered  to 
the  honor  of  that  polished  writer,  not  only  for  the 
warmth  of  the  eulogy  he  bestowed,  but  because  it 
was  the  first  printed  acknowledgment  which  had 
been  made  to  the  genius  of  Burns.  The  copy- 
right was  sold  to  Creech  for  £100  ;  but  the  friends 
of  the  poet  advised  him  to  forward  a  subscription. 
The  patronage  of  the  Caledonian  Hunt,  a  very 
influential  body,  was  obtained.  The  list  of  sub- 
scribers rapidly  rose  to  1500  ;  many  gentlemen 
paying  a  great  deal  more  than  the  price  of  the 
volume  ;  and  it  was  supposed  that  the  poet  de- 
rived from  the  subscription  and  the  sale  of  his 
copyright  a  clear  profit  of  at  least  £700. 

The  conversation  of  Burns,  according  to  the 
testimony  of  all  the  eminent  men  who  heard  him, 
was  even  more  wonderful  than  his  poetry.  He 
affected  no  soft  air  nor  graceful  motions  of  polite- 
ness, which  might  have  ill  accorded  with  the  rus- 
tic plainness  of  his   native  manners.       Conscious 


20    MEMOIR   OF  THE  LIFE   OF  BURNS. 

superiority  of  mind  taught  him  to  associate  with 
the  great,  the  learned,  and  the  gay,  without  being 
overawed  into  any  such  bashfulness  as  might  have 
rendered  him  confused  in  thought  or  hesitating  in 
elocution.  He  possessed  withal  an  extraordinary 
share  of  plain  common  sense  or  mother-wit,  which 
prevented  him  from  obtruding  upon  persons,  of 
whatever  rank,  with  whom  he  was  admitted  to 
converse,  any  of  those  effusions  of  vanity,  envy, 
or  self-conceit,  in  which  authors  who  have  lived 
remote  from  the  general  practice  of  life,  and 
whose  minds  have  been  almost  exclusively  con- 
fined to  contemplate  their  own  studies  and  their 
own  works,  are  but  too  prone  to  indulge.  In  con- 
versation he  displayed  a  sort  of  intuitive  quick- 
ness and  rectitude  of  judgment  upon  every  subject 
that  arose.  The  sensibility  of  his  heart,  and  the 
vivacity  of  his  fancy,  gave  a  rich  coloring  to 
whatever  opinions  he  was  disposed  to  advance ; 
and  his  language  was  thus  not  less  happy  in  con- 
versation than  in  his  writings.  Hence  those  who 
had  met  and  conversed  with  him  once  were 
pleased  to  meet  and  to  converse  with  him  again 
and  again. 

For  some  time  he  associated  only  with  the  vir- 
tuous, the  learned,  and  the  wise,  and  the  purity 
of  his  morals  remained  uncontaminated.  But  un- 
fortunately he  fell,  as  others  have  fallen  in  similar 
circumstances.  He  suffered  himself  to  be  sur- 
rounded by  persons  who  were  proud  to  tell  that 
they  had  been  in  company  with  Burns,  and  had 
seen  Burns  as  loose  and  as  foolish  as  themselves. 
He  now  also  began  to  contract  something  of  arro- 


MEMOIR  OF  THE   LIFE   OF  BURNS.     21 

gance  in  conversation.  Accustomed  to  be  among 
his  associates  what  is  vulgarly  but  expressively 
called  "  the  cock  of"  the  company,"  he  could 
scarcely  refrain  from  indulging  in  a  similar  free- 
dom and  dictatorial  decision  of  talk,  even  in  the 
presence  of  persons  who  could  less  patiently  en 
dure  presumption. 

After  remaining  some  months  in  the  Scottish 
metropolis,  basking  in  the  noontide  sun  of  a  popu- 
larity which,  as  Dugald  Stewart  well  remarks, 
would  have  turned  any  head  but  his  own,  he 
formed  a  resolution  of  returning  to  the  shades 
whence  he  had  emerged,  but  not  before  he  had 
perambulated  the  southern  border.  On  the  6th 
of  May,  1787,  he  set  out  on  his  journey,  and, 
visiting  all  that  appeared  interesting  on  the  north 
of  the  Tweed,  proceeded  to  Newcastle  and  other 
places  on  the  English  side.  He  returned  in  about 
two  months  to  his  family  at  Mauchline  ;  but  in  a 
short  period  he  again  set  out  on  an  excursion  to 
the  north,  where  he  was  most  flatteringly  received 
by  all  the  great  families.  On  his  return  to  Moss- 
giel  he  completed  his  marriage  with  Jane  Armour. 
He  then  concluded  a  bargain  with  Mr.  Miller  of 
Dalswinton,  for  a  lease  of  the  farm  of  Elliesland, 
on  advantageous  terms. 

Burns  entered  on  possession  of  this  farm  at 
Whitsunday,  1788.  He  had  formerly  applied  with 
success  for  an  excise  commission,  and  during  six 
weeks  of  the  summer  of  this  year  he  had  to 
attend  to  the  business  of  that  profession  at  Ayr. 
His  life  for  some  time  was  thus  wandering  and 
unsettled  ;   and   Dr.   Currie  mentions  this  as  one 


22     MEMOIR   OF  THE  LIFE   OF  BURNS. 

of  his  chief  misfortunes.  ~Mv*.  Burns  came  home 
to  him  towards  the  end  of  the  year,  and  the  poet 
was  accustomed  to  say  that  the  happiest  period  of 
his  life  was  the  first  winter  he  spent  in  Elliesland. 
The  neighboring  farmers  and  gentlemen,  pleased 
to  obtain  for  a  neighbor  the  poet  by  whose  works 
thev  had  been  delighted,  kindly  sought  his  com- 
pany, and  invited  him  to  their  houses.  Burns, 
however,  found  an  inexpressible  charm  in  sitting 
down  beside  his  wife,  at  his  own  fireside  ;  in  wan- 
dering over  his  own  grounds  ;  in  once  more  put- 
ting his  hand  to  the  spade  and  the  plough  ;  in 
forming  his  enclosures,  and  managing  his  cattle. 
For  some  months  he  felt  almost  all  that  felicity 
which  fancy  had  taught  him  to  expect  in  his  new 
situation.  He  had  been  for  a  time  idle  ;  but  his 
muscles  were  not  yet  unbraced  for  rural  toil.  He 
now  seemed  to  find  a  joy  in  being  the  husband  of 
the  mistress  of  his  affections,  and  in  seeing  him- 
Bell  the  father  of  children  such  as  promised  to 
attach  him  forever  to  that  modest,  humble,  and 
domestic  life,  in  which  alone  he  could  hope  to  be 
permanently  happy.  Even  his  engagements  in 
the  service  of  the  excise  did  not,  at  first,  threaten 
either  to  contaminate  the  poet  or  to  ruin  the 
farmer. 

From  various  causes,  the  farming  speculation 
did  not  succeed.  Indeed,  from  the  time  he  ob- 
tained a  situation  under  government,  he  gradually 
began  to  sink  the  farmer  in  the  exciseman.  Occa- 
sionally he  assisted  in  the  rustic  occupations  of 
Elliesland,  but  for  the  most  part  he  was  engaged 
in  very  different  pursuits.     In  his  professional  per- 


MEMOIR   OF   THE  LIFE   OF  BURNS.      28 

ambulations  over  the  moors  of  Dumfriesshire  he 
had  to  encounter  temptations  which  a  mind  and 
temperament  like  his  found  it  difficult  to  resist. 
His  immortal  works  had  made  him  universally 
known  and  enthusiastically  admired  ;  and  accord- 
ingly he  was  a  welcome  guest  at  every  house,  from 
the  most  princely  mansion  to  the  lowest  country 
inn.  In  the  latter  he  was  too  frequently  to  be 
found  as  the  presiding  genius,  and  master  of  the 
orgies.  However,  he  still  continued  at  intervals 
to  cultivate  the  muse ;  and,  besides  a  variety  of 
other  pieces,  he  produced  at  this  period  the  inimi- 
table poem  of  Tarn  O'Shanter.  Johnson's  Miscel- 
lany was  also  indebted  to  him  for  the  finest  of  its 
lyrics.  One  pleasing  trait  of  his  character  must 
not  be  overlooked.  He  superintended  the  forma- 
tion of  a  subscription  library  in  the  parish,  and 
took  the  whole  management  of  it  upon  himself. 
These  institutions,  though  common  now,  were  not 
so  at  the  period  of  which  we  write  ;  and  it  should 
never  be  forgotten  that  Burns  was  amongst  the 
first,  if  not  the  very  first,  of  their  founders  in  the 
rural  districts  of  southern  Scotland. 

Towards  the  close  of  1791  he  finally  abandoned 
his  farm  ;  and  obtaining  an  appointment  to  the 
Dumfries  division  of  excise,  he  repaired  to  that 
town  on  a  salary  of  £70  per  annum.  All  his 
principal  biographers  concur  in  stating  that  after 
settling  in  Dumfries  his  moral  career  was  down- 
wards. Heron,  who  had  some  acquaintance  with 
the  matter,  says  :  "  His  dissipation  became  still 
more  deeply  habitual  ;  he  was  here  more  exposed 
than  in  the  country  to  be  solicited  to  share  the 


24     MEMOIR   OF  THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 

revels  of  the  dissolute  and  the  idle ;  foolish  young 
men  flocked  eagerly  about  him,  and  from  time  to 
time  pressed  him  to  drink  with  them,  that  they 
might  enjoy  his  wit.  The  Caledonian  Club,  too, 
and  the  Dumfriesshire  and  Galloway  Hunt,  had 
occasional  meetings  in  Dumfries  after  Burns  went 
to  reside  there  ;  and  the  poet  was  of  course  in- 
vited to  share  their  conviviality,  and  hesitated  not 
to  accept  the  invitation.  In  the  intervals  between 
his  different  fits  of  intemperance  he  suffered  the 
keenest  anguish  of  remorse,  and  horribly  afflictive 
foresight.  His  Jane  behaved  with  a  degree  of 
conjugal  and  maternal  tenderness  and  prudence, 
which  made  him  feel  more  bitterly  the  evil  of  his 
misconduct,  although  they  could  not  reclaim  him." 

This  is  a  dark  picture,  perhaps  too  dark.  The 
Rev.  Mr.  Gray,  who,  as  the  teacher  of  his  son, 
was  intimately  acquainted  with  Burns,  and  had 
frequent  opportunities  of  judging  of  his  general 
character  and  deportment,  gives  a  more  amiable 
portrait  of  the  bard.  Being  an  eye-witness,  the 
testimony  of  this  gentleman  must  be  allowed  to 
have  some  weight.  "  The  truth  is,"  says  he, 
"  Burns  was  seldom  intoxicated.  The  drunkard 
soon  becomes  besotted,  and  is  shunned  even  by 
the  convivial.  Had  he  been  so,  he  could  not 
have  long  continued  the  idol  of  every  party." 
This  is  strong  reasoning ;  and  he  goes  on  to 
mention  other  circumstances  which  seem  to  con- 
firm the  truth  of  his  position.  In  balancing  these 
two  statements,  a  juster  estimate  of  the  moral 
deportment  of  Burns  may  be  formed. 

In  the  year  1792  party  politics  ran  to  a  great 


MEMOIR    OF   THE  LIFE   OF  BURNS.     25 

height  in  Scotland,  and  the  liberal  and  indepen- 
dent spirit  of  Burns  did  certainly  betray  him  into 
Borne  indiscretions.  A  general  opinion  prevails, 
that  he  so  far  lost  the  good  graces  of  his  superiors 
by  his  conduct,  as  to  consider  all  prospects  of 
future  promotion  as  hopeless.  But  this  appears 
not  to  have  been  the  case  ;  and  the  fact  that  he 
acted  as  supervisor  before  his  death  is  a  strong 
proof  to  the  contrary.  Of  his  political  verses  few 
have  as  yet  been  published.  But  in  these  he 
warmly  espoused  the  cause  of  the  Whigs,  which 
kept  up  the  spleen  of  the  other  party,  already 
Buiiiciently  provoked  ;  and  this  may  in  some  meas- 
ure account  for  the  bitterness  with  which  his  own 
character  was  attacked. 

Whatever  opinion  may  be  formed  of  the  extent 
of  his  dissipation  in  Dumfries,  one  fact  is  unques- 
tionable, that  his  powers  remained  unimpaired  to 
the  last ;  it  was  there  he  produced  his  finest  lyrics, 
and  they  are  the  finest,  as  well  as  the  purest,  that 
ever  delighted  mankind.  Besides  Johnson's  Mu- 
seum, in  which  he  took  an  interest  to  the  last,  and 
contributed  most  extensively,  he  formed  a  connec- 
tion with  Mr.  George  Thomson  of  Edinburgh. 
This  gentleman  had  conceived  the  laudable  de- 
sign of  collecting  the  national  melodies  of  Scot- 
land,  with  accompaniments  by  the  most  eminent 
composers,  and  poetry  by  the  most  eminent  writers, 
in  addition  to  those  words  which  were  origmaLly 
attached  to  them.  From  the  multitude  of  sonj;3 
which  Burns  wrote  from  the  year  1702  till  the 
commencement  of  lus  illness,  it  is  evident  that 
few  days  could  have  passed  without  bis  producing 


26     MEMOIR    OF   THE  LIFE   OF  BURNS. 

some  stanzas  for  the  work.  The  following  pas- 
sage from  his  correspondence,  which  was  also  most 
extensive,  proves  that  his  songs  were  not  hurriedly 
got  up,  but  composed  with  the  utmost  care  and 
attention.  "  Until  I  am  complete  master  of  a 
tune  in  my  own  singing,  such  as  it  is,"  says  he,  "  1 
can  never  compose  for  it.  My  way  is  this.  I  con- 
sider the  poetic  sentiment  correspondent  to  my 
idea  of  the  musical  expression,  —  then  choose  my 
theme,  —  compose  one  stanza.  When  that  is  com- 
posed, which  is  generally  the  most  difficult  part 
of  the  business,  I  walk  out,  —  sit  down  now  and 
then,  —  look  out  for  objects  in  nature  round  me 
that  are  in  unison  or  harmony  with  the  cogita- 
tions of  my  fancy,  and  workings  of  my  bosom,  — 
humming  every  now  and  then  the  air,  with  the 
verses  I  have  framed.  When  I  feel  my  muse 
beginning  to  jade,  I  retire  to  the  solitary  fireside 
of  my  study,  and  there  commit  my  effusions  to 
paper;  swinging  at  intervals  on  the  hind  legs  of 
my  elbow-chair,  by  way  of  calling  forth  my  own 
critical  strictures,  as  my  pen  goes.  Seriously, 
this,  at  home,  is  almost  invariably  my  way." 
This  is  not  only  interesting  for  the  light  which 
it  throws  upon  his  method  of  composition,  but  it 
proves  that  conviviality  had  not  as  yet  greater 
charms  for  him  than  the  muse. 

From  his  youth  Burns  had  exhibited  ominous 
symptoms  of  a  radical  disorder  in  his  constitution. 
A  palpitation  of  the  heart,  and  a  derangement  of 
the  digestive  organs,  were  conspicuous.  These 
were,  doubtless,  increased  by  his  indulgences, 
which  became  more  frequent  as  lie  drew  towards 


MEMOIR    OF    THE   LIFE    OF   BURNS.     27 

the  close  of  Lis  career.  Ta  the  autumn  of  V  793 
he  lost  an  only  daughter,  which  was  a  severe 
blow  to  him.  Soon  afterwards  he  was  seized 
with  a  rheumatic  fever ;  and  "  long  the  die  spun 
doubtful,"  says  he,  in  a  letter  to  his  faithful  friend 
Mrs.  Dunlop,  "  until,  after  many  weeks  of  a  sick- 
bed, it  seems  to  have  turned  up  life,  and  I  am 
beginning  to  crawl  across  my  room."  The  cloud 
behind  which  his  sun  was  destined  to  be  eclipsed 
at  noon  had  begun  to  darken  above  him.  Before 
he  had  completely  recovered,  he  had  the  impru- 
dence to  join  a  festive  circle  ;  and,  on  his  return 
from  it,  he  caught  a  cold,  which  brought  back  his 
trouble  upon  him  with  redoubled  severity.  Sea- 
bathing was  had  recourse  to,  but  with  no  ultimate 
success.  He  lingered  until  the  21st  of  July,  1796, 
when  he  expired.  The  interest  which  the  death 
of  Burns  excited  was  intense.  All  differences 
were  forgotten  ;  his  genius  only  was  thought  of. 
On  the  2Cth  of  the  same  month  he  was  conveyed 
to  the  grave,  followed  by  about  ten  thousand  indi- 
viduals of  all  ranks,  many  of  whom  had  come 
from  distant  parts  of  the  country  to  witness  the 
solemnity.  lie  was  interred  with  military  honor? 
by  the  Dumfries  volunteers,  to  which  body  he  had 
belonged. 

Thus,  at  the  age  of  thirty-seven,  an  age  when 
the  mental  powers  of  man  have  scarcely  reached 
their  climax,  died  Robert  Burns,  one  of  the  great- 
est poets  whom  his  country  has  produced.  It  is 
unnecessary  to  enter  into  any  lengthened  analysis 
of  his  poetry  or  character.  His  works  are  uni- 
versally  known   and  admired,   and   criticism    has 


28     MEMOIR   OF   THE  LIFE   OF  BURNS. 

been  drawn  to  the  dregs  upon  the  subject ;  and 
that,  too,  by  the  greatest  masters  who  have  ap- 
peared since  his  death,  —  no  mean  test  of  the 
great  merits  of  his  writings.  lie  excels  equally 
in  touching  the  heart  by  the  exquisiteness  of  his 
pathos,  and  exciting  the  risible  faculties  by  the 
breadth  of  his  humor.  His  lyre  had  many  strings, 
and  he  had  equal  command  over  them  all ;  strik- 
ing each,  and  frequently  in  chords,  with  the  skill 
and  power  of  a  master.  That  his  satire  some 
times  degenerates  into  coarse  invective,  cannot  be 
denied  ;  but  where  personality  is  not  permitted  to 
interfere,  his  poems  of  this  description  may  take 
their  place  beside  anything  of  the  kind  which  has 
ever  been  produced,  without  being  disgraced  by 
the  comparison.  It  is  unnecessary  to  reecho  the 
praises  of  his  best  pieces,  as  there  is  no  epithet  of 
admiration  which  has  not  been  bestowed  upon 
them.  Those  who  had  best  opportunities  of  judg- 
ing are  of  opinion  that  his  works,  stamped  as  they 
are  with  the  impress  of  sovereign  genius,  fall  short 
of  the  powers  he  possessed.  It  is  therefore  to  be 
lamented  that  he  undertook  no  great  work  of  fic- 
tion or  invention.  Had  circumstances  permitted, 
he  would  probably  have  done  so  ;  but  his  excise 
duties,  and  without  doubt  his  own  follies,  pre- 
vented him.  PL's  passions  were  strong,  and  his 
capacity  of  enjoyment  corresponded  with  them. 
These  continually  precipitated  him  into  the  vortex 
of  pleasure,  where;  alone  they  could  be  gratified  ; 
and  the  reaction  consequent  upon  such  indul- 
gences (for  he  possessed  the  finest  discrimination 
between   right  and  wrong)   threw  him   into   low 


CURRIPS  DESCRIPTION  OF  BURNS.     29 

spirits,  to  which  he  was  also  constitutionally  liable. 
His  mind,  being  thus  never  for  any  length  of  time 
in  an  equable  tone,  could  scarcely  pursue  with 
steady  regularity  a  work  of  any  length.  His 
moral  aberrations,  as  detailed  by  some  of  his 
biographers,  have  been  exaggerated,  as  already 
noticed.  This  lias  been  proved  by  the  testimony 
of  many  witnesses,  from  whose  authority  there 
can  be  no  appeal ;  for  they  had  the  best  oppor- 
tunities of  judging. 


Dk.  Currik's  description  of  Burns,  having 
been  composed  under  advantages  which  no  sub- 
sequent writer  can  enjoy,  forms  a  desirable  sup- 
plement to  any  memoir  of  his  life. 

"  Burns  was  nearly  five  feet  ten  inches  in  height, 
and  of  a  form  that  indicated  agility  as  well  as 
strength.  His  well-raised  forehead,  shaded  with 
black  curling  hair,  indicated  extensive  capacity. 
His  eyes  were  large,  dark,  full  of  ardor  and  intel- 
ligence. His  face  was  well  formed,  and  his  coun- 
tenanca  uncommonly  interesting  and  expressive. 
His  mode  of  dressing,  which  was  often  slovenly, 
and  a  certain  fulness  and  bend  in  his  shoulders, 
characteristic  of  his  original  profession,  disguised 
in  some  degree  the  natural  symmetry  and  elegance 
of  his  form.  The  external  appearance  of  Burns 
was  most  strikingly  indicative  of  the  character  of 
his  mind.  On  a  first  view,  his  physiognomy  had 
a  certain  air  of  coarseness,  mingled,  however,  with 
an  expression  of  deep   penetration,  and  of  calm 


30     CURRIES  DESCRIPTION  OF  BURNS. 

thoughtfulness,  approaching  to  melancholy.  There 
appeared  in  his  first  manner  and  address,  perfect 
ease  and  self-possession,  but  a  stern  and  almost 
supercilious  elevation,  not,  indeed,  incompatible 
with  openness  and  affability,  which,  however,  be- 
spoke a  mind  conscious  of  superior  talents.  Stran- 
gers that  supposed  themselves  approaching  an  Ayr- 
shire peasant  who  could  make  rhymes,  and  to 
whom  their  notice  was  an  honor,  found  themselves 
speedily  overawed  by  the  presence  of  a  man  who 
bore  himself  with  dignity,  and  who  possessed  a 
singular  power  of  correcting  forwardness  and  of 
repelhng  intrusion.  But  though,  jealous  of  the  re- 
spect due  to  himself,  Burns  never  enforced  it  where 
he  saw  it  was  willingly  paid ;  and  though  inacces- 
sible to  the  approaches  of  pride,  he  was  open  to 
every  advance  of  kindness  and  of  benevolence. 
His  dark  and  haughty  countenance  easily  relaxed 
into  a  look  of  good-will,  of  pity,  or  of  tenderness ; 
and  as  the  various  emotions  succeeded  each  other 
in  bis  mind,  assumed  with  equal  ease  the  expres- 
sion of  the  broadest  humor,  of  the  most  extrava- 
gant mirth,  of  the  deepest  melancholy,  or  of  the 
most  sublime  emotion.  The  tones  of  his  voice 
happily  corresponded  with  the  expression  of  his 
features,  and  with  the  feelings  of  his  mind.  When 
to  these  endowments  are  added  a  rapid  and  dis- 
tinct apprehension,  a  most  powerful  understand- 
ing, and  a  happy  command  of  language  —  of 
strength  as  well  as  brilliancy  of  expression — we 
shall  be  able  to  account  for  the  extraordinary  at- 
tractions of  his  conversation  —  for  the  sorcery 
which,  in  his  social  parties,  he  seemed  to  exert  ov 


CURRIES  DESCRIPTION    OF  BURNS.     31 

all  around  him.  In  the  company  of  women,  this 
sorcery  was  more  especially  apparent.  Their 
presence  charmed  the  fiend  of  melancholy  in  his 
bosom,  and  awoke  his  happiest  feelings  ;  it  excited 
the  powers  of  his  fancy,  as  well  as  the  tenderness 
of  liis  heart ;  and  by  restraining  the  vehemence 
and  the  exuberance  of  his  language,  at  times  gavw 
to  his  manners  the  impression  of  taste,  and  even 
of  elegance,  which  in  the  company  of  men  they 
seldom  possessed.  This  influence  was  doubtless 
reciprocal.  A  Scottish  lady,  accustomed  to  the 
best  society,  declared  with  characteristic  naivete, 
that  no  man's  conversation  ever  carried  her  so 
completely  off  her  feet  as  that  of  Burns  ; 1  and  an 
English  lady,  familiarly  acquainted  with  several 
of  the  most  distinguished  characters  of  the  pres- 
ent times,  assured  the  editor,  that  in  the  happiest 
of  his  social  hours,  there  was  a  charm  about  Burns 
which  she  had  never  seen  equalled.2  This  charm 
arose  not  more  from  the  power  than  the  versa- 
tility of  his  genius.  No  languor  could  be  felt 
in  the  society  of  a  man  who  passed  at  pleasure 
from  grave  to  gay,  from  the  ludicrous  to  the  pa* 
thetic,  from  the  simple  to  the  sublime  ;  who 
wielded  all  his  faculties  with  equal  strength  and 
ease,  and  never  failed  to  impress  the  oifspring  of 
liis  fancy  with  the  stamp  of  his  understanding. 

"  This,  indeed,  is  to  represent  Burns  in  his  hap- 
piest phasis.  In  large  and  mixed  parties,  he  was 
often  silent  and  dark,  sometimes  fierce   and  over- 


1  It  has  been  stated  that  this  lady  wm  Jano,  Duchess  of  f!i>r- 
don. 
*  Mrs   Walter  Riddel  is  here  meant. 


32      CURRIES  DESCRIPTION   OF  BURNS. 

bearing  ;  he  was  jealous  of  the  proud  man's  scorn, 
jealous  to  an  extreme  of  the  insolence  of  wealth, 
and  prone  to  avenge,  even  on  its  innocent  pos- 
ssesor,  the  partiality  of  fortune.  By  nature,  kind, 
brave,  sincere,  and  in  a  singular  degree  compas- 
sionate, he  was,  on  the  other  hand,  proud,  irascible, 
and  vindictive.  His  virtues  and  his  failings  had 
their  origin  in  the  extraordinary  sensibility  of  his 
mind,  and  equally  partook  of  the  chills  and  glows 
of  sentiment.  His  friendships  were  liable  to  inter- 
ruption from  jealousy  or  disgust,  and  his  enmities 
died  away  under  the  influence  of  pity  or  self-accu- 
sation. His  understanding  was  equal  to  the  other 
powers  of  his  mind,  and  his  deliberate  opinions 
were  singularly  candid  and  just ;  but,  like  other 
men  of  great  and  irregular  genius,  the  opinions 
which  he  delivered  in  conversation  were  often  the 
offspring  of  temporary  feelings,  and  widely  differ- 
ent from  the  calm  decisions  of  his  judgment.  This 
was  not  merely  true  respecting  the  characters  of 
others,  but  in  regard  to  some  of  the  most  impor- 
tant points  of  human  speculation." 


PREFACE 


FIRST  EDITION  OF  BURNS' S  POEMS. 


[The  first  edition  of  Burns's  poetry  was  pub 
iisbed  at  Kilmarnock   towards   the   end  of  July. 
1786,  with  the  title,  Poems,  chiefly  in  the  Sec 
Dialect,  by  Robert  Burns,  and  the  motto  : 

"  The  Simple  Bard,  unbroke  to  rules  of  art, 
He  pours  the  wild  effusions  of  the  heart : 
And  if  inspired,  'tis  Nature's  powers  inspire-, 
Hers  all  the  melting  thrill,  and  hers  the  kindling  fire." 

Anonymous. 

It  contained  the  following  pieces  :  —  The  Twh 
Dogs  —  Scotch    Drink  —  The    Author's    Earnest 
Cry  and  Prayer  —  The  Holy  Fair  —  Address  i-.. 
the   Deil  —  Mailie  —  To  J.   S****  [Smith]  —  A 
Dream  —  The  Vision  —  Halloween  —  The  Aula 
Farmer's  New-year    Morning's    Salutation   to    !.:.■ 
Auld     Mare     Maggie  —  The     Cotter's     Saturday 
Night  —  To  a  Mouse  —  Epistle  to  Davie  —  T: 
Lament  —  Despondency,     an     Ode — Man     v.,. 
Made  to  Mourn  —  Winter,  a  Dirge  —  A  Pray' 
in  the  Prospect  of  Death  —  To  a  Mountain   I ' 
—  To  Ruin  —  Epistle  to  a  Young  Friend  —  ('.- 
a  Scotch  Bard  gone  to  the  West  Indies  —  A  D<  < ! 

VOL.  I.  3 


34      PREFACE   TO    THE  FIRHT  EDITION. 

ication  to  G****  H*******,  Esq.  —  To  a  Louse 

—  Epistle  to  J.  L******,  an  old  Scots  Bard  —  To 
the  Same  —  Epistle  to  W.  S******,  Ochiltree  — 
Epistle  to  J.  R******  —  Song,  "  It  was  upon  a 
Lammas  Night" — Song.  "Now  Westlin'  Winds" 

—  Song,  "From  thee,  Eliza,  I  must  go"  —  TIk- 
Farewell  to  the  Brethren  of  St.  James's  Lodge, 
Torbolton  —  Epitaphs  and  Epigrams  —  A  Bard's 
Epitaph. 

It  was  introduced  by  the  following  preface  :  — ] 

"  The  following  trifles  are  not  the  production 
of  the  poet,  who,  with  all  the  advantages  of 
learned  art,  and  perhaps  amid  the  elegances  and 
idlenesses  of  upper  life,  looks  down  for  a  rural 
theme,  with  an  eye  to  Theocritus  or  Virgil.  To 
the  author  of  this,  these  and  other  celebrated 
names,  their  countrymen,  are,  in  their  original 
languages,  a  fountain  shut  up,  and  a  book  sealed. 
Unacquainted  with  the  necessary  requisites  for 
commencing  poet  by  rule,  he  sings  the  sentiments 
and  manners  he  felt  and  saw  in  himself  and  his 
rustic  compeers  around  him,  in  his  and  their  na- 
tive language.  Though  a  rhymer  from  his  earliest 
years,  at  least  from  the  earliest  impulses  of  the 
softer  passions,  it  was  not  till  very  lately  that  the 
applause,  perhaps  the  partiality,  of  friendship,  wak- 
ened his  vanity  so  far  as  to  make  him  think  any- 
thing of  his  worth  shewing  ;  and  none  of  the  fol- 
lowing works  were  ever  composed  with  a  view  to 
the  press.  To  amuse  himself  with  the  little  crea- 
tions of  his  own  fancy,  amid  the  toil  and  fatigues 
of  a  laborious  life  ;  to  transcribe  the  various  feel- 


PREFACE   TO    THE  FJRST  EDITION.     35 

ings,  the  loves,  the  griefs,  the  hopes,  the  fears  in 
his  own  breast ;  to  find  some  kind  of  counterpoise 
to  the  struggles  of  a  world,  always  an  alien  scene, 
a  task  uncouth  to  the  poetical  mind,  —  these  were 
his  motives  for  courting  the  Muses,  and  in  these 
he  found  poetry  to  be  its  own  reward. 

"  Now  that  he  appears  in  the  public  character 
of  an  author,  he  does  it  with  fear  and  trembling. 
So  dear  is  fame  to  the  rhyming  tribe,  that  even 
he,  an  obscure,  nameless  bard,  shrinks  aghast  at 
the  thought  of  being  branded  as  —  an  impertinent 
blockhead,  obtruding  his  nonsense  on  the  world  ; 
and  because  he  can  make  a  shift  to  jingle  a  few 
doggerel  Scotch  rhymes  together,  looks  upon  him- 
self as  a  poet  of  no  small  consequence  forsooth  ! 

"  It  is  an  observation  of  that  celebrated  poet l 
whose  divine  elegies  do  honour  to  our  language, 
our  nation,  and  our  species,  that  '  Humility  has 
depressed  many  a  genius  to  a  hermit,  but  never 
raised  one  to  fame  ! '  If  any  critic  catches  at  the 
word  genius,  the  author  tells  him,  once  for  all, 
that  he  certainly  looks  upon  himself  as  possessed 
of  some  poetic  abilities,  otherwise  his  publishing 
in  the  manner  he  has  done  would  be  a  manoeuvre 
below  the  worst  character  which,  he  hopes,  his 
worst  enemy  will  ever  give  him.  But  to  the 
genius  of  a  Ramsay,  or  the  glorious  dawnings  of 
the  poor,  unfortunate  Fergusson,  he,  with  equal 
unaffected  sincerity,  declares  that,  even  in  his 
highest  pulse  of  vanity,  he  has  not  the  most 
distant  pretensions.  These  two  justly-admired 
Scotch  poets  he  has  often  had  in  his  eye  in  the 
l  Sh«nstone. 


3G      PREFACE   TO    TEE  FIRST  EDITION. 

following  pieces,  but  rather  with  a  view  to  kindh 
at  their  riarae,  than  for  servile  imitation. 

"  To  his  subscribers  the  author  returns  his  most 
sincere  thanks.  Not  the  mercenary  bow  over  a 
counter,  but  the  heart-throbbing  gratitude  of  the 
bard,  conscious  how  much  he  owes  to  benevolence 
and  friendship  for  gratifying  him,  if  he  deserve;- 
it,  in  that  dearest  wish  of  every  poetic  bosom  — 
to  be  distinguished.  He  begs  his  readers,  partic- 
ularly the  learned  and  the  polite,  who  may  honour 
him  with  a  perusal,  that  they  will  make  every 
allowance  for  education  and  circumstances  of  life ; 
but  if,  after  a  fair,  candid,  and  impartial  criticism, 
he  shall  stand  convicted  of  dulness  and  nonsense, 
let  him  be  done  by  as  he  would  in  that  case  do 
by  others  —  let  him  be  condemned,  without  mercy, 
to  contempt  and  oblivion." 


DEDICATION 

PREFIXED    TO    THE    SECOND  EDITION. 

PUBLISHED   APRIL  21ST,   1787. 


To  the  Noblemen  and  Gentlemen  of  the  Caledonian  Hunt. 

My  Lords  and  Gent  lemen.  —  A  Scottish 
bard,  proud  of  the  name,  and  whose  highest  am- 
bition is  to  sing  in  his  country's  service  —  where 
Bhall  he  so  properly  look  for  patronage  as  to  the 
illustrious  names  of  his  native  land,  those  who 
bear  the  honours,  and  inherit  the  virtues,  of  their 
ancestors  ?  The  poetic  genius  of  my  country 
found  me,  as  the  prophetic  bard  Elijah  did 
Elisha,  at  the  plough,  and  threw  her  inspiring 
mantle  over  me.  She  bade  me  sing  the  loves, 
the  joys,  the  rural  scenes  and  rural  pleasures  of 
my  native  soil,  in  my  native  tongue.  I  tuned  my 
wild,  artless  notes,  as  she  inspired.  She  whis- 
pered me  to  come  to  this  ancient  metropolis  of 
Caledonia,  and  lay  my  songs  under  your  honoured 
protection.     I  now  obey  her  dictates. 

Though  much  indebted  to  your  goodness,  I  do 
not  approach  you,  my  Lords  and  Gentlemen,  in 
the  usual  style  of  dedication,  to  thank  you  for  past 
favours ;  that  path  Is  so  hackneyed  by  prostituted 


■  <-.'"<.  ';  >>'■* 


88    DEDICATION  OF  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 

learning,  that  honest  rusticity  is  ashamed  of  it. 
Nor  do  I  present  this  address  with  the  venal  soul 
of  a  servile  author,  looking  for  a  continuation  of 
those  favours :  —  I  was  bred  to  the  plough,  and 
am  independent.  I  come  to  claim  the  common 
Scottish  name  with  you,  my  illustrious  country- 
men, and  to  teU  tbe  world  that  I  glory  in  the 
title.  I  come  to  congratulate  my  country  that 
the  blood  of  her  ancient  heroes  still  runs  uncon- 
taminated  ;  and  that  from  your  courage,  knowl- 
edge, and  public  spirit,  she  may  expect  protection, 
wealth,  and  liberty.  In  the  last  place,  I  come  to 
proffer  my  warmest  wishes  to  the  great  fountain 
of  honour,  the  Monarch  of  the  Universe,  for  your 
welfare  and  happiness. 

When  you  go  forth  to  waken  the  echoes,  in  the 
ancient  and  favourite  amusement  of  your  fore- 
fathers, may  pleasure  ever  be  of  your  party,  and 
may  social  joy  await  your  return  !  When  har- 
assed in  courts  or  camps  with  the  justlings  of  bad 
men  and  bad  measures,  may  the  honest  conscious- 
ness of  injured  worth  attend  your  return  to  your 
native  seats  —  and  may  domestic  happiness,  with 
a  smiling  welcome,  meet  you  at  your  gates  ! 
May  corruption  shrink  at  your  kindling  indignant 
glance  ;  and  may  tyranny  in  the  ruler,  and  licen- 
tiousness in  the  people,  equally  find  you  an  inex- 
orable foe  1  I  have  the  honour  to  be,  with  the 
gincerest  gratitude  and  highest  respect,  my  Lords 
and  G-entlenien,  your  most  devoted,  humble  ser- 
vant, 

ROBERT  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  Oh  April,  1787. 


POEMS. 


ROBERT.. BURMS,'  .<  . 

1759-1796. 
— ♦ — 

HANDSOME  NELL. 
Tuxz —  lam  a  Man  Umnarried. 

f\R  once  I  loved  a  bonnie  lass, 
^   Ay,  and  I  love  her  still ; 
And  whilst  that  honour  warms  my  breast, 
I  '11  love  my  handsome  Nell. 

As  bonnie  lasses  I  hae  seen, 

And  mony  full  as  braw  ; 
But  for  a  modest,  gracefu'  mien, 

The  like  I  never  saw. 

A  bonnie  lass,  I  will  confess, 

Is  pleasant  to  the  ee, 
But  without  some  better  qualities, 

She  's  no  the  lass  for  me. 


But  Nelly's  looks  arc  blithe  and  sweet, 

And,  what  is  best  of*  a', 
Her  reputation  is  complete, 

And  fair  without  a  flaw.1 

1  Variation  In  Mr.  John  Dick's  MS.  :  — 

Buf  Nelly's  looks  nre  blithe  and  sweet, 
Good -humoured,  frank,  and  free; 


42  /  DREAMED  1   LAY. 

She  dresses  aye  sae  clean  and  neat, 
Both  decent  and  genteel : 

And  then  tl  eve  s  something  in  her  gait 
Gars  ony  dress  look  weel. 

A  gaudy  dress  and  gentle  air 
May  slightly  touch  the  heart ; 

But  it 's  innocence  and  modesty 
That  polishes  the  dart. 

'T  is  this  in  Nelly  pleases  me, 
'T  is  this  enchants  my  soul ; 

For  absolutely  in  my  breast 
She  reijms  without  control. 


I  DREAMED  I  LAY. 

I"  DREAMED  I  lay  where  flowers  were  springing 

Gaily  in  the  sunny  beam  ; 
Listening  to  the  wild  birds  singing, 

By  a  falling,  crystal  stream  : 
Straight  the  sky  grew  black  and  daring  ; 

Through  the  woods  the  whirlwinds  rave ; 
Trees  with  aged  arms  were  warring, 

O'er  the  swelling  drumlie  wave. 

Such  was  my  life's  deceitful  morning, 
Such  the  pleasure  I  enjoyed  ; 

And  still  the  more  I  view  them  o'er, 
The  more  they  captive  me. 
The  next  verse  is  wanting  in  that  MS. 


MY  NANNIE,    0.  43 

But  lang  or  noon,  loud  tempests  storming, 

A'  my  flowery  bliss  destroyed. 
Though  fickle  Fortune  has  deceived  me,  — 

She  promised  fair,  and  performed  but  ill ; 
Of  mony  a  joy  and  hope  bereaved  me  ;  — 

I  bear  a  heart  shall  support  me  still 


MY  NANNIE,   0. 
Tune  —  My  Nannie,  0. 

"DEHTND  yon  hills  where  Stinsiar  flows,1 

'Mang  moors  and  mosses  many,  O, 
The  wintry  sun  the  day  has  closed, 
And  I  '11  awa'  to  Nannie,  O. 

The  westlin  wind  blaws  loud  and  shill ; 

The  night's  baith  mirk  and  rainy,  O  ; 
But  I  '11  get  my  plaid,  and  out  I  '11  steal, 

And  owre  the  hills  to  Nannie,  O 

My  Nannie 's  charming,  sweet,  and  young, 
Nae  artfu'  wiles  to  win  ye,  O  : 

May  ill  befa'  the  flattering  tongue 
That  wad  beguile  my  Nannie,  O  ! 

Her  face  is  fair,  her  heart  is  true, 
As  spotless  as  she  's  bonny,  O  : 

The  opening  gowan,  wet  wi'  dew, 
Nae  purer  is  than  Nannie,  O. 

i  In  subsequent  copie-.  Burns  was  induced  to  substitute  for 

the  Stinxiar,  which  has  local  verity  in  it*  favor,  -lie  Lugnr,  a 
name  thought  to  be  more  euphonious,  but  which  is  otherwise 
unsuitable. 


44  TIBBIE,  I  IIAE  SEEN   THE  DAT. 

A  country  lad  is  my  degree, 

And  few  there  be  that  ken  me,  O 

But  what  care  I  how  few  they  be  ? 
I  'm  welcome  aye  to  Nannie,  O. 

My  riches  a's  my  penny-fee, 

And  I  maun  guide  it  canny,  0  ; 

But  warl's  gear  ne'er  troubles  me, 
My  thoughts  are  a'  —  my  Nannie,  O. 

Our  auld  guidman  delights  to  view 
His  sheep  and  kye  thrive  bonny,  O ; 

But  I'mas  blithe  that  hauds  his  pleugh, 
And  has  nae  care  but  Nannie,  O. 

Come  weal,  come  woe,  I  care  nae  by, 
I  '11  tak  what  Heaven  will  send  me,  O 

Nae  ither  care  in  life  have  I, 

But  live  and  love  my  Nannie,  O. 


TIBBIE,  I   HAE  SEEN  THE  DAY 
Tune — InvercaidrVs  Red. 

r\  TIBBIE,  I  hae  seen  the  day 

Ye  wad  na  been    sae  shy  ; 
For  lack  o'  gear  ye  lightly  me, 
But,  trowth,  I  care  na  by. 

Yestreen  I  met  you  on  the  mooi, 
Ye  spak  na,  but  gaed  by  like  stoure  ; 
Ye  geek  at  me  because  I  'm  poor, 
But  ficnt  a  hair  care  I. 


TIBBIE,  I  IIAE  SEEN   THE  DAY.         45 

I  doubt  na,  lass,  but  ye  may  think, 
Because  ye  hae  the  name  o'  clink, 
That  ye  can  please  me  at  a  wink, 
Whene'er  you  like  to  try. 

But  sorrow  tak  him  that 's  sae  mean, 
Although  his  pouch  o'  coin  were  clean, 
Wha  follows  ony  saucy  quean, 
That  looks  sae  proud  and  high. 

Although  a  lad  were  e'er  sae  smart, 
If  that  he  want  the  yellow  dirt, 
Yc  '11  cast  yc  ur  head  another  airt, 
And  answer  him  fu'  dry. 

But  if  he  hae  the  name  o'  gear, 
Ye  '11  fasten  to  him  like  a  brier, 
Though  hardly  he,  for  sense  or  iear, 
Be  better  than  the  kye. 

But,  Tibbie,  lass,  tak  my  advice, 
Your  daddie's  gear  maks  you  sae  nice  ; 
The  deil  a  ane  wad  speer  your  price, 
Were  ye  as  poor  as  I. 

There  lives  a  lass  in  yonder  park, 
I  would  na  gie  her  in  her  sark, 
For  thee,  wi'  a'  thy  thousan'  mark ; 
Ye  need  na  look  sae  high. 


46  THE   TORBOLTON  LABSES. 


THE  TORBOLTON   LASSE&, 

TF  ye  gae  up  to  yon  bill-tap, 

Ye  '11  there  see  bonnie  Peggy  ; 
She  kens  her  father  is  a  laird, 
And  she  forsooth  's  a  leddy. 

There  Sophy  tight,  a  lassie  bright, 
Besides  a  handsome  fortune  : 

"Wha  canna  win  her  in  a  night, 
Has  Uttle  art  in  courting. 

Gae  down  by  Faile,  and  taste  the  ale, 

And  tak  a  look  o'  Mysie  ; 
She 's  dour  and  din,  a  deil  within, 

But  ablins  she  may  please  ye. 

If  she  be  shy,  her  sister  try, 

Ye  '11  maybe  fancy  Jenny, 
If  ye  '11  dispense  wi'  want  o'  sense  — 

She  kens  hersel  she 's  bonnie. 

As  ye  gae  up  by  yon  hillside, 
Speer  in  for  bonnie  Bessy  ; 

She  '11  gie  ye  a  beck,  and  bid  ye  light, 
And  handsomely  address  ye. 

There 's  few  sae  bonnie,  nane  sae  guid, 
In  a'  King  George'  dominion  ; 

If  ye  should  doubt  the  truth  o'  this  — 
It 's  Bessy's  ain  opinion  I 


RONALDS   OF   TEE   BENNAL8.  47 

THE  RONALDS  OF  THE  BENNALS. 

TN  Torbolton,  ye  ken,  there  are  proper  young 
men, 

And  proper  young  lasses  and  a',  man ; 
13ut  ken  ye  the  Ronalds  that  live  in  the  Bennala, 

They  carry  the  gree  fi-ae  them  a',  man. 

Their  father 's  a  laird,  and  weel  he  can  spare  % 
Braid  money  to  tocher  them  a',  man, 

To  proper  young  men,  he'll  clink  in  the  hand 
Gowd  guineas  a  hunder  or  twa,  man. 

There 's  ane  they  ca'  Jean,  I  '11  warrant  ye  've  seen 

As  bonnie  a  lass  or  as  braw,  man  ; 
But  for  sense  and  guid  taste  she  '11  vie  wi'  the  best, 

And  a  conduct  that  beautifies  a',  man. 

The  charms  o'  the  min',  the  langer  they  shine, 
The  mair  admiration  they  draw,  man  ; 

While  peaches  and  cherries,  and  roses  and  lilies, 
They  fade  and  they  wither  awa,  man. 

If  ye  be  for  Miss  Jean,  tak  this  frae  a  frien', 

A  hint  o'  a  rival  or  twa,  man  ; 
The  Laird  o'  Blackbyre  wad  gang  through    the 
fire, 

If  that  wad  entice  her  awa,  man. 

The  Laird  o'  Braehead  has  been  on  his  speed, 
For  mair  than  a  towmond  or  twa,  man  ; 


48  RON.\LDS   OF   TEE  BENNALS. 

The  Laird  o'  the  Ford  will  straught  on  a  board, 
If  he  canna  get  her  at  a',  man. 

Then  Anna  comes  in,  the  pride  o'  her  kin, 
The  boast  of  our  bachelors  a',  man  : 

Sae  sonsy  and  sweet,  sae  fully  complete, 
She  steals  our  affections  awa,  man. 

If  I  should  detail  the  pick  and  the  wale 

O'  lasses  that  live  here  awa,  man, 
The  fault  wad  be  mine,  if  they  didna  shine, 

The  sweetest  and  best  o'  them  a',  man. 

I  lo'e  her  mysel,  but  darena  we  el  tell, 
My  poverty  keeps  me  in  awe,  man , 

For  making  o'  rhymes,  and  working  at  times, 
Poes  little  or  naething  at  a',  man. 

Yet  I  wadna  choose  to  let  her  refuse, 
Nor  hae  't  in  her  power  to  say  na,  man ; 

For  though  I  be  poor,  unnoticed,  obscure, 
My  stomach 's  as  proud  as  them  a',  man. 

Though  I  canna  ride  in  weel-booted  pride, 
And  flee  o'er  the  hills  like  a  craw,  man, 

I  can  haud  up  my  head  wi'  the  best  o'  the  breed, 
Though  fluttering  ever  so  braw,  man. 

My  coat  and  my  vest,  they  are  Scotch  o*  the  best, 
O'  pairs  o'  guid  breeks  I  hae  twa,  man, 

And  stockings  and  pumps  to  put  on  my  stumps, 
And  ne'er  a  wrang  steek  in  them  a',  man. 


ON  CESSNOCK   BANKS.  49 

My  Barks  th9y  are  few,  but  five  o'  them  new, 
TwaT  hundred,  as  white  as  the  snaw,  man, 

A  ten  shillings  hat,  a  Holland  cravat ; 
There  are  no  mony  poets  sae  braw,  man. 

I  never  had  frien's,  weel  stockit  in  means, 
To  leave  me  a  hundred  or  twa,  man ; 

Nae  weel-tochered  aunts,  to  wait  on  their  drants. 
And  wish  them  in  hell  for  it  a',  man. 

I  never  was  canny  for  hoarding  o'  money, 
Or  claughtin  't  together  at  a',  man  ; 

I  've  little  to  spend,  and  naething  to  lend, 
But  deevil  a  shilling  I  awe,  man. 


ON  CESSNOCK  BANKS.* 

Turns  —  If  he  be  a  Butcher  neat  and  trim. 

CX$  Cessnock  Banks  there  lives  a  lass  ; 

Could  I  describe  her  shape  and  mien, 
The  graces  of  her  weel-faured  face, 

And  the  glancing  of  her  sparkling  een  ! 

1  This  piece  appeared  for  the  first  time  in  Oomek*s  Relieves, 
the  editor  stating  that  he  hud  recovered  it  "  from  the  oral  com- 
munication of  a  lady  residing  at  Olasgow,  whom  the  bard  in  early 
life  affectionately  admired."  It  seems  not  unlikely  that  i'.Uison 
herself  had  grown  into  this  lady.  A  copy  printed  from  the  poet's 
manuscript  in  Pickering's  edition  of  his  works  is  considerably 
different  iu  one  stanza,  presents  an  additional  one,  and  exhibits 
»  different  concluding  line  to  each  verse  — 

"  An'  she  'b  twa  sparkling  roguish  pen ." 

TOL.    I.  4 


50  ON   CESSNOCK  BANKS. 

She 's  fresher  than  the  morning  dawn 
When  rising  Phoebus  first  is  seen, 

When  dew-drops  twinkle  o'er  the  lawn  ; 
And  she 's  twa  glancing  sparkling  een. 

She  's  stately  like  yon  youthful  ash, 
That  grows  the  cowslip  braes  between, 

And  shoots  its  head  above  each  bush ; 
And  she 's  twa  glancing  sparkling  een. 

She 's  spotless  as  the  flowering  thom, 

With  flowers  so  white  and  leaves  so  green, 

When  purest  in  the  dewy  mora  ; 

And  she  's  twa  glancing  sparkling  een. 

Her  looks  are  like  the  sportive  lamb, 
When  flowery  May  adorns  the  scene, 

That  wantons  round  its  bleating  dam ; 
And  she 's  twa  glancing  sparkling  een. 

Her  hair  is  like  the  curling  mist 

That  shades  the  mountain-side  at  e'en, 

When  flower-reviving  rains  are  past ; 
And  she  's  twa  glancing  sparkling  een. 

Her  forehead  's  like  the  showery  bow, 
When  shining  sunbeams  intervene, 

And  gild  the  distant  mountain's  brow  ; 
And  she  's  twa  glancing  sparkling  een. 

Her  voice  is  like  the  evening  thrush 
That  sings  in  Cessnock  Banks  unseen, 


ON    CESS  NOCK  BAN  KB.  51 

While  his  mate  sits  nestling  in  the  bush ; 
And  she 's  twa  glancing  sparkling  een. 

Her  lips  are  like  the  cherries  ripe 

That  sunny  walls  from  Boreas  screen  ; 

They  tempt  the  taste  and  charm  the  sight 
And  she  's  twa  glancing  sparkling  een. 

Her  teeth  are  like  a  flock  of  sheep, 
With  fleeces  newly  washen  clean, 

That  slowly  mount  the  rising  steep  ; 
And  she  's  twa  glancing  sparkling  een.1 

Her  breath  is  like  the  fragrant  breeze 
That  gently  stirs  the  blossomed  bean, 

When  Phoebus  sinks  beneath  the  seas  ; 
And  she 's  twa  glancing  sparkling  een. 

[Her  cheeks  are  like  yon  crimson  gem, 
The  pride  of  all  the  flowery  scene, 

Just  opening  on  its  thorny  stem  ; 

And  she 's  twa  sparkling  roguish  een.]  * 

But  it 's  not  her  air,  her  form,  her  face, 
Though  matching  beauty's  fabled  queen, 

But  the  mind  that  shines  in  every  grace, 
And  chiefly  in  her  sparkling  een. 

1  Variation  in  Pickering's  copy :  — 

Her  teeth  are  like  the  nightly  snow, 
While  pale  the  morning  rises  keen, 

While  hiil  the  murmuring  streamlets  flow; 
And  she  's  twa  sparkling  roguish  een. 

The  above  is  the  additional  stanza  in  Pickering's  edition 


52  WINTER,  A  DIRGE. 


WINTER,  A  DIRGE. 

HHHE  wintry  west  extends  his  blast, 

And  hail  and  rain  does  blaw ; 
Or,  the  stormy  north  sends  driving  forth 

The  blinding  sleet  and  snaw  : 
While,  tumbling  brown,  the  burn  comes  down. 

And  roars  frae  bank  to  brae ; 
And  bird  and  beast  in  covert  rest, 

And  pass  the  heartless  day. 

The  sweeping  blast,  the  sky  o'ercast, 

The  joyless  winter  day, 
Let  others  fear,  —  to  me  more  dear 

Than  all  the  pride  of  May  : 
The  tempest's  howl,  it  soothes  my  soul, 

My  griefs  it  seems  to  join  ; 
The  leafless  trees  my  fancy  please, 

Their  fate  resembles  mine  ! 

Thou  Power  Supreme,  whose  mighty  scheme 

These  woes  of  mine  fulfil, 
Here  firm  I  rest,  —  they  must  be  best, 

Because  they  are  Thy  will  1 
Then  all  I  want  (oh,  do  Thou  grant 

This  one  request  of  mine  !) 
Since  to  enjoy  Thou  dost  deny, 

Assist  me  to  resign  I 


A   PRAYER.  53 

A   PRAYEE, 

WWTTEN   UNDER  THE   PKESSUKE   OF   VIOLENT  ANGUISH. 

/^\H  Thou  great  Being  !  what  Thou  art 

Surpasses  me  to  know  : 
Yet  sure  I  am,  that  known  to  Thee 
Are  all  Thy  works  below. 

Thy  creature  here  before  Thee  stands, 

All  wretched  and  distrest ; 
Yet  sure  those  ills  that  wring  my  soul 

Obey  Thy  high  behest. 

Sure  Thou,  Almighty,  canst  not  act 

From  cruelty  or  wrath  ! 
Oh  free  my  weary  eyes  from  tears, 

Or  close  them  fast  in  death  I 

But  if  I  must  afflicted  be, 

To  suit  some  wise  design, 
Then  man  my  soul  with  firm  resolves 

To  bear,  and  not  repine  ! 


FROM   A  MEMORANDUM   BOOK. 

(~\H  why  the  deuce  should  I  repine, 

And  be  an  ill  fbreboder  ? 
I  'm  twenty-three,  and  five  feet  nine, 
I  '11  go  and  be  a  sodger  1 

I  gat  some  gear  wi'  mickle  care, 
I  held  it  weel  thegitber; 


54  MY  FATHER    WAS  A  FARMER. 

But  now  it 's  gane,  and  something  mair  — 
I  '11  go  and  be  a  sodger  ! 


Oh  leave  novels,  ye  Mauchline  belles, 
Ye  're  safer  at  your  spinning-wheel ; 

Such  witching  books  are  baited  hooks 
For  rakish  rooks  like  Rob  Mossgiel.  . 

B»iware  a  tongue  that 's  smoothly  hung, 
A  heart  that  warmly  seems  to  feel ; 

That  feeling  heart  but  acts  a  part ; 
'T  is  rakish  art  in  Rob  Mossgiel.  .  . 


MY  FATHER  WAS  A  FARMER. 
TUNE  —  The   Weaver  and  his  Shuttle,  O. 

TV/I"Y  father  was  a  farmer  upon  the  Carrick  bor- 

-JX      der,  O, 

And  carefully  he  bred  me  in  decency  and  or- 
der, O  ; 

He  bade  me  act  a  manly  part,  though  I  had  ne'er 
a  farthing,  O  ; 

For  without  an  honest  manly  heart  no  man  was 
worth  regarding,  O. 

Then  out  into  the  world  my  course  I  did  deter- 
mine, O  ; 

Though  to  be  rich  was  not  my  wish,  yet  to  be 
great  was  charming,  O 


MY  FATHER    WAS  A   FARMER.  55 

My  talents  they  were  not  the  worst,  nor  yet  my 

education,  O ; 
Resolved  was  I,  at  least  to  try,  to  mend  my  situ 

ation,  O. 

Tn  mauy  a  way,  and  vain  essay,  I  courted  for- 
tune's favour,  O  ; 

Some  cause  unseen  still  stept  between,  to  frustrate 
each  endeavour,  O. 

Sometimes  by  foes  I  was  o'erpowered,  sometimes 
by  friends  forsaken,  O  ; 

And  when  my  hope  was  at  the  top,  I  still  was 
worst  mistaken,  O. 

Then  sore  harassed,  and  tired  at  last,  with  for- 
tune's vain  delusion,  O, 

I  dropt  my  schemes,  like  idle  dreams,  and  came 
to  this  conclusion,  O  :  — 

The  past  was  bad,  and  the  future  hid  —  ite  good 
or  ill  untried,  O  ; 

But  the  present  hour  was  in  my  power,  and  so  I 
would  enjoy  it,  O. 

No  help,  nor  hope,  nor  view  had  I,  nor  person  to 

befriend  me,  O ; 
So  I  must  toil,  and  sweat,  and  broil,  and  labor  to 

sustain  me,  O  ; 
To  plough  and  sow,  to  reap  and  mow,  my  father 

bred  me  early,  O  ; 
For  one,  he  said,  to  labor  bred,  was  a  match  for 

fortune  fairly,  O. 


56  MT  FATHER    WAS   A  FARMER. 

Thus  all  obscure,  unknown,  and  poor,  through  life 
I  'm  doomed  to  wander,  O, 

Till  down  my  weary  bones  I  lay,  in  everlasting 
slumber,  O. 

No  view  nor  care,  but  shun  whate'er  might  breed 
me  pain  or  sorrow,  0  ; 

I  live  to-day  as  well's  I  may,  regardless  of  to- 
morrow, O. 

But  cheerful  still,  I  am  as  well  as  a  monarch  in  a 

palace,  O, 
Though  fortune's  frown  still  hunts  me  down  with 

all  her  wonted  malice,  O  : 
I  make  indeed  my  daily  bread,  but  ne'er  can  make 

it  further,  O  ; 
But  as  daily  bread  is  all  I  need,  I  do  not  much 

regard  her,  O. 

When  sometimes  by  my  labor  I  earn  a  little 
money,  O, 

Some  unforeseen  misfortune  comes  generally  upon 
me,  O  : 

Mischance,  mistake,  or  by  neglect,  or  my  good- 
natured  folly,  O  : 

But  come  what  will,  I  've  sworn  it  still,  I  '11  ne'er 
be  melancholy,  O. 

All  you  who  follow  wealth  and  power  with  unre- 
mitting ardor,  O, 

The  more  in  tliis  you  look  for  bliss,  you  leave 
your  view  the  further,  O  : 


POOR  MAI  LIE.  57 

Had  you  the  wealth  Potosi  boasts,  or  nations  to 
adore  you,  O, 

A  cheerful  honest-hearted  clown  I  will  prefer  be- 
fore you,  O. 


HIE    DEATH    AND    DYING    WORDS    OF    POOR 
MAILIE,  THE  AUTHOR'S  ONLY  PET  YOWE: 

AN   UXCO   MOUHNFU'    TALE. 

\  S  Mailie  and  her  lambs  thegitler, 
"^^  Were  ae  day  nibbling  on  the  tether, 
Upon  her  cloot  she  coost  a  hitch, 
And  owre  she  warsled  in  the  ditch  : 
There,  groaning,  dying,  she  did  he, 
When  Hughoc  he  cam  doytin'  by. 

Wi'  glowering  een  and  lifted  hands, 
Poor  Hughoc  like  a  statue  stands ; 
He  saw  her  days  were  near-hand  ended, 
But,  waes  my  heart !  he  could  na  mend  it 
He  gaped  wide,  but  naething  spak  — 
At  length  poor  Mailie  silence  brak. 

'  Oh  thou,  whose  lamentable  face 
Appears  to  mourn  my  woefu'  case  ! 
My  dying  words  attentive  hear, 
And  bear  them  to  my  master  dear. 

'  Tell  him,  if  e'er  again  he  keep 
As  muekle  gear  as  buy  a  sheep, 


58  POOR  MAILTE. 

O  bid  Lira  never  tie  them  rnair 
Wi'  wicked  strings  o'  hemp  or  hair ! 
But  ca'  them  out  to  park  or  hill, 
And  let  them  wander  at  their  will ; 
So  may  his  flock  increase,  and  grow 
To  scores  o'  lambs,  and  packs  o'  woo' ! 

'  Tell  him  he  was  a  master  kin', 
And  aye  was  guid  to  me  and  mine  ; 
And  now  my  dying  charge  I  gie  him  — 
My  helpless  lambs  I  trust  thein  wi'  him. 

'  Oh,  bid  him  save  their  harmless  lives 
Frae  dogs,  and  tods,  and  butchers'  knives  ! 
But  gie  them  guid  cow-milk  their  fill, 
Till  they  be  fit  to  fend  themsel ; 
And  tent  them  duly,  e'en  and  morn, 
Wi'  teats  o'  hay,  and  ripps  o'  corn. 

'And  may  they  never  learn  the  gaets 
Of  other  vile,  wanrestfu'  pets  ; 
To  slink  through  slaps,  and  reave  and  steal 
At  stacks  o'  peas,  or  stocks  o'  kail. 
So  may  they,  like  their  great  forbears, 
For  mony  a  year  come  through  the  shears : 
So  wives  will  gie  them  bits  o'  bread, 
And  bairns  greet  for  them  when  they  're  dea< 

4  My  poor  toop-lamb,  my  son  and  heir 
Oh,  bid  him  breed  him  up  wi'  care  ; 
And  if  he  live  to  be  a  beast, 
To  pit  some  havins  in  his  breast ! 


POOR  MAILIJJ'S   ELEGY.  59 

'And  warn  him,  what  I  wir.na  name, 
To  stay  content  wi'  yowcs  at  hame  ; 
And  no  to  rin  and  wear  his  cloots, 
Like  ither  menselcss,  graceless  brutes. 

'And  neist  my  yowie,  silly  thing, 
Gude  keep  thee  frae  a  tethe:  string  ; 
Oh,  may  thou  ne'er  forgather  up 
Wi'  ony  blastit,  moorland  toop, 
But  aye  keep  mind  to  moor  and  mell 
Wi'  sheep  o'  credit  like  thysel. 

'And  now,  my  bairns,  wi'  my  last  breath 
I  lea'e  my  blessin'  wi'  you  baith  : 
And  when  you  think  upo'  your  mither, 
Mind  to  be  kin'  to  ane  anithcr. 

'  Now,  honest  Hughoe,  dinna  fail 
To  tell  my  master  a'  my  tale  ; 
And  bid  him  burn  his  cursed  tether, 
And,  for  thy  pains,  thou  's  get  my  blether.' 

This  said,  poor  Mailie  turned  her  head, 
And  closed  her  een  anianfi  the  dead. 


POOR   MAIME'S   ELEGY. 

r  ANIENT  in  rhyme,  lament  in  prose, 

Wi'  saut  tears  trickling  down  your  nose 
Our  bardie's  fate  is  at  a  close. 
Past  a'  remead, 


60  POOR  MAIL  IPS  ELEOY. 

The  last  sad  capc-stane  of  his  woes  — 
Poor  Mailie  's  dead  ! 

It 's  no  the  loss  o'  warl's  gear, 
That  could  sae  bitter  draw  the  tear, 
Or  mak  our  bardie,  dowie,  wear 

The  mourning  weed  : 
He  's  lost  a  friend  and  neibor  dear, 

In  Mailie  dead. 

Through  a'  the  toun  she  trotted  by  him  ; 
A  lang  half-mile  she  could  descry  him ; 
Wi'  kindly  bleat,  when  she  did  spy  him, 

She  ran  wi'  speed  : 
A  friend  mair  faithfu'  ne'er  cam  nigh  him 

Than  Mailie  dead. 

I  wat  she  was  a  sheep  o'  sense, 
And  could  behave  hersel  wi'  mense : 
I  '11  say  't  she  never  brak  a  fence, 

Through  thievish  greed. 
Our  bardie,  lanely,  keeps  the  spence 

Sin'  Mailie  's  dead. 

Or,  if  he  wanders  up  the  howe, 

Her  living  image  in  her  yowe, 

Comes  bleating  to  him,  owre  the  knowe; 

For  bits  o'  bread  ; 
And  down  the  briny  pearls  rowe 

For  Mailie  dead. 

She  was  nae  get  o'  moorland  tips, 
Wi'  tawted  ket,  and  hairy  hips, 


JOHN  BARLEYCORN— A   BALLAD.        61 

For  her  forbears  were  brought  in  ships 

Frae  yont  the  Tweed  : 
A  bonnier  fleesh  ne'er  crossed  the  clips 

Than  Maihe  dead.1 

Wae  worth  the  man  wha  first  did  shape 
That  vile,  wanchancie  thing  a  rape  ! 
It  makes  guid  fellows  girn  and  gape, 

Wi'  chokin'  dread  ; 
And  Robin's  bonnet  wave  wi'  crape, 

For  Mailie  dead. 

Oh  a'  ye  bards  on  bonnie  Doon  ! 
And  wha  on  Ayr  your  chanters  tune 
Come,  join  the  melancholious  croon 

O'  Robin's  reed  ! 
His  heart  will  never  get  aboon  — 

His  Mailie  's  dead  ! 


JOHN  BARLEYCORN  — A  BALLAD. 

HPHERE  were  three  kings  into  the  east, 

Three  kings  both  great  and  high 
And  they  hae  sworn  a  solemn  oath 
John  Barleycorn  should  die. 

Variation  in  original  MS. :  — 

She  was  nae  got  o'  runted  rams, 

Wi'  woo  like  coat?,  and  legs  like  trams 

She  was  the  llower  o'  Fairly  lambs, 

A  tanious  breed  ; 
Now  Robin,  greetin",  chows  the  hams 

0'  Mailie  dead. 


62       JOHN  BARLEYCORN— A  BALLAD. 

They  took  a  plough  and  ploughed  him  down 

Put  clods  upon  his  head ; 
And  they  hae  sworn  a  solemn  oath, 

John  Barleycorn  was  dead. 

But  the  cheerful  spring  came  kindly  on, 

And  showers  began  to  fall ; 
John  Barleycorn  got  up  again, 

And  sore  surprised  them  all. 

The  sultry  suns  of  summer  came, 
And  he  grew  thick  and  strong ; 

His  head  weel  armed  wi'  pointed  spears, 
That  no  one  should  him  wrong. 

The  sober  autumn  entered  mild, 
When  he  grew  wan  and  pale  ; 

His  bending  joints  and  drooping  head 
Shewed  he  began  to  fail. 

His  colour  sickened  more  and  more, 

He  faded  into  age  ; 
And  then  his  enemies  began 

To  shew  their  deadly  rage. 

They  've  taen  a  weapon,  long  and  sharp, 

And  cut  him  by  the  knee  ; 
Then  tied  him  fast  upon  a  cart, 

Like  a  rogue  for  forgerie. 

They  laid  him  down  upon  his  back. 
And  cudgelled  him  full  sore  ; 


JOHN   BARLEYCORN  -A  BALLAD.       68 

They  hung  him  up  before  the  storm, 
And  turned  him  o'er  and  o'er. 

They  filled  up  a  darksome  pit 

With  water  to  the  brim  ; 
They  heaved  in  John  Barleycorn, 

There  let  him  sink  or  swim. 

They  laid  him  out  upon  the  floor 

To  work  him  further  wo ; 
And  still,  as  signs  of  life  appeared, 

They  tossed  him  to  and  fro. 

They  wasted  o'er  a  scorching  flame 

The  marrow  of  his  bones  ; 
But  a  miller  used  him  worst  of  all, 

For  he  crushed  him  'tween  two  stones. 

And  they  hae  taen  his  very  heart's  blood. 

And  drunk  it  round  and  round  ; 
And  still  the  more  and  more  they  drank, 

Their  joy  did  more  abound. 

John  Barleycorn  was  a  hero  bold, 

Of  noble  enterprise ; 
For  if  you  do  but  taste  his  blood, 

'T  will  make  your  courage  rise. 

T  will  make  a  man  forget  his  wo ; 

'T  will  heighten  all  liis  joy  : 
'T  will  make  the  widow's  heart  to  sing, 

Though  the  tear  were  in  her  eye. 


64  MARY  MORRISON. 

Then  let  us  toast  John  Barleycorn, 
Each  man  a  glass  in  hand ; 

And  may  his  great  posterity 
Ne'er  fail  in  old  Scotland  ! 


MARY   MORRISON. 

C\R  Mary,  at  thy  window  be, 

It  is  the  wished,  the  trysted  hour  ! 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see, 

That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor  : 
How  blithely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun, 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure, 

The  lovely  Mary  Morrison. 

Y"estreen  when  to  the  trembling  string, 

The  dance  gaed  through  the  lighted  ha', 
To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 

I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw. 
Though  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 

And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 
£  sighed,  and  said  amang  them  a' : 

'  Ye  are  na  Mary  Morrison.' 

Oh  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  die  ? 
Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 

Whase  only  fhut  is  loving  thee  ? 
If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie, 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown ; 
A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 

The  thought  o'  Mary  Morrison. 


THE  RIGS   &   BARLEY.  65 

THE  RIGS  0'   BARLEY. 

Tone  —  Corn  Rigs. 

TT  was  upon  a  Lammas  night, 
When  corn  rigs  are  bonnie, 
Beneath  the  moon's  unclouded  light, 

I  held  awa  to  Annie  :  * 

The  time  flew  by  wi'  tentless  heed, 

Till  'tween  the  late  and  early, 
Wi'  sma'  persuasion  she  agreed 

To  see  me  through  the  barley. 

The  sky  was  blue,  the  wind  was  still, 

The  moon  was  shining  clearly ; 
I  set  her  down  wi'  right  good  will 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley ; 
I  kent  her  heart  was  a'  my  ain  ; 

I  loved  her  most  sincerely  ; 
I  kissed  her  owre  and  owre  again 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley. 

I  locked  her  in  my  fond  embrace  ; 

Her  heart  was  beating  rarely  : 
My  blessings  on  that  happy  place, 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley  1 
But  by  the  moon  and  stars  so  bright, 

That  shone  that  hour  so  clearly, 
She  aye  shall  bless  that  happy  night 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley  ! 

I  hae  been  blithe  wi'  comrades  dear  ; 
I  hae  been  merry  drinkin' ; 
TOU  I  5 


66  MONTGOMERY'S  PEGGY. 

I  hae  been  joyfu'  gath'rin'  gear  ; 

I  hae  been  happy  thinkin' : 
But  a'  the  pleasures  e'er  I  saw, 

Though  three  times  doubled  fairly, 
That  happy  night  was  worth  them  a", 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley. 


Corn  rigs,  and  barley  rigs, 
And  corn  rigs  are  bonnie  : 

I  '11  ne'er  forget  that  happy  night 
Amancr  the  rigs  wi'  Annie. 


MONTGOMERY'S  PEGGY. 
TtTNE —  Gala  \vater. 

A  LTHOUGH  my  bed  were  in  yon  muir 
"^^    Amang  the  heather,  in  my  plaidie, 
Yet  happy,  happy  would  I  be, 

Had  I  my  dear  Montgomery's  Peggy. 

When  o'er  the  hill  beat  surly  storms, 

And  winter  nights  were  dark  and  rainy, 

I  'd  seek  some  dell,  and  in  my  arms 
I  'd  shelter  dear  Montgomery's  Peggy. 

Were  I  a  baron  proud  and  high, 

And  horse  and  servants  waiting  ready, 
Then  a'  't  wad  gie  o'  joy  to  me, 

The  sharin  't  with  Montgomery's  Peggy 


SONG  COMPOSED  IN  AUGUST.         87 

SONG  COMPOSED  IN  AUGUST. 
Tune  —  I  had  a  horse,  1  liad  nae  mair. 

"VTOW  westlin  winds  and  slaughtering  guns 

Bring  autumn's  pleasant  weather  ; 
The  moorcock  springs,  on  whirring  wings, 

Amang  the  blooming  heather. 
Now  waving  grain,  wide  o'er  the  plain, 

Delights  the  weary  farmer  ; 
And  the  moon  shines  bright,  when  1  rove  at  night 

To  muse  upon  my  charmer. 

The  partridge  loves  the  fruitful  fells  ; 

The  plover  loves  the  mountains  ; 
The  woodcock  haunts  the  lonely  dells  , 

The  soaring  hern  the  fountains : 
Through  lofty  groves  the  cushat  roves, 

The  path  of  man  to  shun  it ; 
The  hazel-bush  o'erhangs  the  thrush, 

The  spreading  thorn  the  linnet. 

Thus  every  kind  their  pleasure  find, 

The  savage  and  the  tender  ; 
Some  social  join,  and  leagues  combine  ; 

Some  solitary  wander : 
Avaunt,  away  !  the  cruel  sway, 

Tyrannic  man's  dominion  ; 
The  sportsman's  joy,  the  murdering  cry, 

The  fluttering  gory  pinion. 

But  Peggy,  dear,  the  evening  's  clear, 
Thick  Hies  the  skimming  swallow  ; 


68     INSCRIPTION  FOR    WILLIAM  BURNESX 

The  sky  is  blue,  the  fields  in  view, 

All  fading-green  and  yellow  : 
Come,  let  us  stray  our  gladsome  way, 

And  view  the  charms  of  nature ; 
The  rustling  corn,  the  fruited  thorn, 

And  every  happy  creature. 

We  '11  gently  walk,  and  sweetly  talk, 

Till  the  silent  moon  shine  clearly ; 
I  '11  grasp  thy  waist,  and  fondly  prest, 

Swear  how  I  love  thee  dearly  : 
Not  vernal  showers  to  budding  flowers, 

Not  autumn  to  the  farmer, 
So  dear  can  be  as  thou  to  me, 

My  fair,  my  lovely  charmer  ! 


INSCRIPTION  ON   THE  TOMBSTONE  OF 
WILLIAM  BURNESS. 

(~\R  ye  whose  cheek  the  tear  of  pity  stains, 

Draw  near  with  pious  rev'rence  and  attend  I 
Here  lie  the  loving  husband's  dear  remains, 
The  tender  father,  and  the  gen'rous  frier  d. 

The  pitying  heart  that  felt  for  human  wo ; 

The  dauntless  heart  that  feared  no  human  pride ; 
The  friend  of  man,  to  vice  alone  a  foe  ; 

*  For  evea  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side." 


PRAYER  IN   PROSPECT   OF  DEATH.      69 


▲   PRAYER  IN  THE  PROSPECT  OF  DEATH. 

f\R  thou  unknown,  Almighty  Cause 

Of  all  iny  hope  and  fear  ! 
In  whose  dread  presence,  ere  an  hour, 
Perhaps  I  must  appear  ! 

If  I  have  wandered  in  those  paths 

Of  life  I  ought  to  shun, 
As  something,  loudly,  in  my  breast, 

Remonstrates  I  have  done ; 

Thou  know'st  that  Thou  hast  formed  me 
With  passions  wild  and  strong  ; 

And  listening  to  their  witching  voice 
Has  often  led  me  wrong. 

Where  hu^ian  weakness  has  come  short, 

Or  frailty  stept  aside, 
Do  thou,  All-good  !  —  for  such  thou  art,  — 

In  shades  of  darkness  hide. 

Where  with  intention  I  have  erred, 

No  other  plea  I  have, 
But,  Thou  art  good  ;  and  goodness  still 

Delighteth  to  forgive. 


70  STANZAS. 


STANZAS   ON  THE  SAME  OCCASION. 

Y\/"HY  am  I  loth  to  leave  this  earthly  scene  ? 
Have  I  so  found  it  full  of  pleasing  charms  ? 
Some  drops  of  joy  with  draughts  of  ill  between 
Some    gleams    of    sunshine    'mid    renewing 
storms : 
Is  it  departing  pangs  my  soul  alarms  ? 

Or  death's  unlovely,  dreary,  dark  abode  ? 
For  guilt,  for  guilt,  my  terrors  are  in  arms  ; 
I  tremble  to  approach  an  angry  God, 
And  justly  smart  beneath  his  sin-avenging  rod. 

Fain  would  I  say,  "  Forgive  my  foul  offence  ! " 

Fain  promise  never  more  to  disobey  ; 
But  should  my  Author  health  again  dispense, 

Again  I  might  desert  fair  Virtue's  way  : 
Again  in  Folly's  path  might  go  astray  ; 

Again  exalt  the  brute,  and  sink  the  man ; 
Then  how  should  I  for  heavenly  mercy  pray, 

Who  act  so  counter  heavenly  mercy's  plan  ? 
Who  sin  so  oft  have  mourned,  yet  to  temptation 
ran  ? 

Oh  Thou,  great  Governor  of  all  below  ! 

If  I  may  dare  a  lifted  eye  to  Thee, 
Thy  nod  can  make  the  tempest  cease  to  blow, 

Or  still  the  tumult  of  the  raging  sea  : 
With  that  controlling  power  assist  even  me 


TEE  FIRST  rS;LLM.  71 

Those  headlong  furious  passions  to  confine; 
For  all  unfit  I  feel  my  powers  to  be, 

To  rule  their  torrent  in  the  allowed  line  ; 
Oh,  aid  ni«  with  Thy  help,  Omnipotence  Divine  I 


THE  FIRST   PSALM. 

rpHE  man,  in  life  wherever  placed, 

Hath  happiness  in  store, 
Who  walks  not  in  the  wicked's  way, 
Nor  learns  their  guilty  lore  ! 

Nor  from  the  seat  of  scornful  pride 

Casts  forth  his  eyes  abroad, 
But  with  humility  and  awe 

Still  walks  before  his  God. 

That  man  shall  flourish  like  the  trees 
Which  by  the  streamlets  grow  ; 

The  fruitful  top  is  spread  on  high, 
And  firm  the  root  below. 

But  he  whose  blossom  buds  in  guilt, 

Shall  to  the  ground  be  cast, 
And,  like  the  rootless  stubble,  tost 

Before  the  sweeping  blast. 

l  In  Mr.  Dick's  .MS.  is  apparently  au  earlier  copy  of  this  poem, 
sontaiuing  some  variations  expv  s-ive  of  deeper  contrition  than 
what  here  appears.  After  "Asotin  I  might  desert  fair  Virtue's 
way,'"  conies,  '"Again  by  passion  would  lie  led  astray."  The  sec- 
ond line  of  the  la.-t  stanza  is,  •■  If  one  so  black  with  criinec  dare 
on  thee  call." 


72  THE  NINETIETH  PSALM. 

For  why  ?  that  God  the  good  adore 
Hath  given  them  peace  and  rest, 

But  hath  decreed  that  wicked  men 
Shall  ne'er  be  truly  blest. 


THE  FIRST  SIX  VERSES  OF  THE  NINETIETH 
PSALM. 

f\H~  Thou,  the  first,  the  greatest  friend 
^   Of  all  the  human  race  ! 
Whose  strong  right  hand  has  ever  been 
Their  stay  and  dwelling-place  ! 

Before  the  mountains  heaved  their  heads 

Beneath  thy  forming  hand, 
Before  this  ponderous  globe  itself 

Arose  at  Thy  command  ; 

That  Power  which  raised  and  still  upholds 

This  universal  frame, 
From  countless,  unbeginning  time, 

Was  ever  still  the  same. 

Those  mighty  periods  of  years 

Which  seem  to  us  so  vast, 
Appear  no  more  before  Thy  sight 

Than  yesterday  that 's  past. 

Thou  giv'st  the  word :  Thy  creature  man, 
Is  to  existence  brought ; 


EPISTLE   TO  JOHN  RANKINE.  73 

Again  Thou  say'st :  "  Ye  sons  of  men, 
Return  ye  into  nought !  " 

Thou  layest  them  with  all  their  cares 

In  everlasting  sleep ; 
As  with  a  flood  Thou  tak'st  them  off, 

With  overwhelming  sweep. 

They  flourish  like  the  morning  flower, 

In  beauty's  pride  arrayed  ; 
But  long  ere  night,  cut  down,  it  lies 

All  withered  and  decayed. 


EPISTLE  TO  JOHN   RANKINE. 

/"\H  rough,  rude,  ready-witted  Rankine, 
^   The  wale  o'  cocks  for  fun  and  drinkin 
There  's  mony  godly  folks  are  thinkin', 

Your  dreams  and  tricks 
Will  send  you,  Korah-like,  a-sinkin', 

Straught  to  Auld  Nick's. 

Ye  hae  sae  mony  cracks  and  cants, 
And  in  your  wicked,  drucken  rants, 
Ye  mak  a  devil  o'  the  saunts, 

And  fdl  them  fou  ; 
And  then  their  failings,  flaws,  and  wants, 

Are  a'  seen  through. 

Hypocrisy,  in  mercy  spare  it ! 
That  holy  robe,  oh  dinna  tear  it ! 


74  EPISTLE   TO  JOHN  R.INK1NE. 

Spare 't  for  their  sakes  wha  aften  wear  it, 

The  lads  in  black  ! 
But  your  curst  wit,  when  it  comes  near  it, 

Rives  't  aff  their  back. 

Think,  wicked  sinner,  wha  ye  're  skaithing  : 
It  's  just  the  blue-gown  badge  and  claithing 
O'  saunts  ;  tak  that,  ye  lea'e  them  naitliing 

To  ken  them  by, 
Frae  ony  unregenerate  heathen 

Like  you  or  I. 

I  've  sent  you  here  some  rhyming  ware, 
A'  that  I  bargained  for,  and  mair ; 
Sae,  whan  ye  hae  an  hour  to  spare, 

I  will  expect 
Yon  sang,  ye  '11  sen  't  wi'  canny  care, 

And  no  neglect. 

Though,  faith,  sma'  heart  hae  I  to  sing  ! 
My  muse  dow  scarcely  spread  her  wing ; 
I  've  played  mysel  a  bonnie  spring, 

And  danced  my  fill ; 
I  'd  better  gaen  and  sair't  the  king 

At  Bunker's  Hill. 

T  was  ae  night  lately,  in  my  fun, 

I  gaed  a-roving  wi'  the  gun, 

And  brought  a  paitrick  to  the  grun', 

A  bonnie  hen, 
Anil  as  the  twilight  was  begun, 

Thought  nane  wad  ken. 


EPISTLE  TO  JOHN  RANKIN  E.  75 

The  poor  wee  thing  was  little  hurt  • 

I  straikit  it  a  woe  for  sport, 

Ne'er  thinking  the)'  wad  fash  me  for 't ; 

Eut  deil-ma-eare  ! 
Somebody  tells  the  poacher-court 

The  hale  affair. 

Some  auld  used  hands  had  taen  a  note 
That  sic  a  hen  had  got  a  shot ; 
I  was  suspected  for  the  plot ; 

I  scorned  to  lie  ; 
So  gat  the  whistle  o'  my  groat, 

And  pay  't  the  fee.  .  •  . 

As  soon  's  the  clocking-time  is  by, 
And  the  wee  pouts  begun  to  cry, 
L — ,  I'se  hae  sportin'  by  and  by, 

For  my  gowd  guinea, 
Though  I  should  hunt  the  buckskin  kye 

For 't  in  Virginia.  .  .  . 

It  puts  me  aye  as  mad  's  a  hare  ; 
So  I  can  rhyme  and  write  nae  mair; 
But  pennyworths  again  is  fair, 

When  time  's  expedient 
Meanwhile  I  am,  respected  sir, 

Your  most  obedient. 


76  GREEN  GROW  THE  RASHES. 


GREEN  GROW  THE  RASHES. 
Tune  —  Green  grow  tlie  Rashes. 

HTHERE  'S  nought  but  care  on  every  hand, 

In  every  hour  that  passes,  O  : 
What  signifies  the  fife  o'  man, 
And  't  were  na  for  the  lasses,  O. 

CHORUS. 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  O  ! 

Green  grow  the  rashts,  0  ! 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spend 

Are  spent  amang  the  lasses,  O. 

The  warly  race  may  riches  chase, 
And  riches  still  may  fly  them,  O  5 

And  though  at  last  they  catch  them  fast, 
Their  hearts  can  ne'er  enjoy  them,  O. 

Gie  me  a  canny  hour  at  e'en, 

My  arms  about  my  dearie,  O ; 
And  warly  cares,  and  warly  men, 

May  a'  gae  tapsalteerie,  O. 

For  you  sae  douce  ye  sneer  at  this, 
Ye  're  nought  but  senseless  asses,  O  : 

The  wisest  man  the  warl'  e'er  saw, 
He  dearly  loved  the  lasses,  O. 

Auld  Nature  swears,  the  lovely  dears 
Her  noblest  work  she  classes,  O  : 


THE  CURE  FOR  ALL   CARE.  77 

Her  'prentice  hand  she  tried  on  man, 
And  then  she  made  the  lasses,  O. 


THE   CURE  FOR  ALL  CARE. 
Tune— Prepare,  my  dear  Brethren,  to  the  Tavern  let  'sfly. 

IVTO  churchman  am  I  for  to  rail  and  to  write, 

No  statesman  nor  soldier  to  plot  or  to  fight, 
No  sly  man  of  business  contriving  a  snare ; 
For  a  big-bellied  bottle  's  the  whole  of  my  care 

The  peer  I  don't  envy,  I  give  him  his  bow ; 
I  scorn  not  the  peasant,  though  ever  so  low ; 
But  a  club  of  good  fellows,  like  those  that  are 

here, 
And  a  bottle  like  this,  are  my  glory  and  care. 

Here  passes  the  squire  on  his  brother  —  his  horse ; 
There  centum  per  centum,  the  cit  with  his  purse ; 
But  see  you  The  Crown,  how  it  waves  in  the  airl 
There  a  big-bellied  bottle  still  eases  my  care. 

The  wife  of  my  bosom,  alas !  she  did  die ; 
For  sweet  consolation  to  church  I  did  fly ; 
T  found  that  old  Solomon  proved  it  fair, 
That  a  big-bellied  bottle  's  a  cure  for  all  care. 

I  once  was  persuaded  a  venture  to  make  ; 
A  letter  informed  me  that  all  was  to  wreck ; 
But  the  pursy  old  landlord  just  waddled  up  stairs. 
With  a  glorious  bottle  that  ended  my  cares. 


78       FROM  TEE  COMMONPLACE-BOOK. 

'  Life's  cares,  they  are  comforts  '  —  a  maxim  laid 

down 
By  the  bard,  what  d'  ye  call  him,  that  wore  the 

black  gown ; 
And,  faith,  I  agree  with  th'  old  prig  to  a  hair ; 
For  a  big-bellied  bottle  's  a  heaven  of  care. 

ADDED    ES    A    MASON    LODGE. 

Then  fill  up  a  bumper,  and  make  it  o'erflow, 
And  honors  masonic  prepare  for  to  throw; 
May  every  true  brother  of  th'  compass  and  square 
Have   a  big-bellied  bottle    when    harassed    with 
care  ! 


"THOUGH  CRUEL  FATE  SHOULD  BID  US 
PART." 

TTHOUGH  cruel  Fate  should  bid  us  part, 

As  far 's  the  Pole  and  Line, 
Her  dear  idea  round  my  heart 
Should  tenderly  entwine. 

Though  mountains  frown  and  deserts  howl, 

And  oceans  roar  between  ; 
Yet,  dearer  than  my  deathless  soul, 

I  still  would  love  my  Jean. 


One  night  as  I  did  wander, 
When  corn  begins  to  shoot, 

I  sat  me  down  to  ponder, 
Upon  an  auld  tree-root. 


ROBIN. 

Auld  Ayr  rat  by  before  me, 
And  bickered  to  the  seas, 

A  cushat  crooded  o'er  me, 

That  echoed  through  the  traes. 


ROBIN. 
Tune  —  Dainty  Davie. 

HPHERE  was  a  lad  was  born  in  Kyla, 

But  whatna  day  o'  whatna  style, 
I  doubt  it 's  hardly  worth  my  while 
To  be  sae  nice  wi'  Robin. 
Robin  was  a  rovin'  boy, 

Rantin'  rovin',  rantin'  rovin;'; 
Robin  was  a  rovin'  boy, 
Rantin'  rovin'  Robin  ! 

Our  monarch's  hindmost  year  but  ntx* 
"Was  five-and-twenty  days  begun, 
'Twas  then  a  blast  o'  Janwar'  win' 
Blew  handsel  in  on  Robin. 

The  gossip  keekit  in  his  loof, 
Quo'  scho,  wha  lives  will  see  the  proof 
This  waly  boy  will  be  nae  coof ; 
I  think  we  '11  ca'  him  Robin. 

He  11  hae  misfortunes  great  and  sma\ 
But  aye  a  heart  aboon  them  a' ; 


80  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ROBERT  RUISSEAUX 

He  11  be  a  credit  till  us  a' ; 
We  '11  a'  be  proud  o'  Robin. 

But  sure  as  three  times  three  mak  nine, 
I  see  by  ilka  score  and  line, 
This  chap  will  dearly  like  cur  kin', 
So  leeze  me  on  thee,  Robin. 


ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ROBERT 
RUISSEAUX. 

T^OW  Robin  lies  in  his  last  lair, 

He  '11  gabble  rhyme  nor  sing  nae  mair, 
Cauld  poverty,  wi'  hungry  stare, 

Nae  mair  shall  fear  him  ; 
Nor  anxious  fear,  nor  cankert  care, 

E'er  mair  come  near  him. 

To  tell  the  truth,  they  seldom  fash't  him, 
Except  the  moment  that  they  crush't  him ; 
For  sune  as  chance  or  fate  had  hush't  'em, 

Though  e'er  sae  short, 
Then  wi'  a  rhyme  or  sang  he  lash't  'em, 

And  thought  it  sport. 

Though  he  was  bred  to  k  intra  wark, 
.And  counted  was  baith  wight  and  stark, 
Yet  that  was  never  Robin's  mark 

To  mak  a  man  ; 
But  tell  him,  he  was  learned  and  dark., 

Ye  roosed  him  than  ! 


WHEN  FIRST  I  CAME.  81 


THE  BELLES  OF  MAUCHLINE. 

TN    Mauchline   there   dwells  six    proper   young 
belles, 

Tie  pride  of  the  place  and  its  neighbourhood  a*, 
Their  carriage  and  dress,  a  stranger  would  guess, 

In  Lon'on  or  Paris,  they  'd  gotten  it  a'. 
Miss  Miller  is  fine,  Miss  Markland  's  divine, 

Miss  Smith  she  has  wit,  and  Miss  Betty  is  braw, 
There 's  beauty  and  fortune  to  get  wi'  Miss  Morton ; 

But  Armour's  the  jewel  for  me  o'  them  a. 


WHEN  FIRST  I   CAME   TO   STEWART  KYLE. 
Tcnk  —  I  had  a  Horse,  T  hrvl  no*  mair, 

TX7HEN  first  I  came  to  Stewart  Kyle, 

My  mind  it  was  na  steady, 
Where'er  I  gaed,  where'er  I  rade, 
A  mistress  still  I  had  aye. 

But  when  I  came  roun'  by  Mauchline  toun, 

Not  dreadin'  anybody, 
My  heart  was  caught  before  I  thought, 

And  by  a  Mauchline  lady. 


82   RAGING  FORTUNES  WITHERING  BLAST 


THOUGH  FICKLE  FORTUNE  HAS  DECEIVED 
ME. 

rPHOUGH  fickle  fortune  has  deceived  me, 

She  promised  fair,  and  performed  but  ill ; 
Of  mistress,  friends,  and  wealth  bereaved  me, 
Yet  I  bear  a  heart  shall  support  me  still. 

I  '11  act  with  prudence  as  far  's  I  'm  able, 

But  if  success  I  must  never  find, 
Then  come  misfortune,  I  bid  thee  welcome, 

I  '11  meet  thee  with  an  undaunted  mind.1 


OH  RAGING  FORTUNE'S   WITHERING  BLAST. 

/^\II  rag;in<;  fortune's  withering  blast 
KJ  Has  laid  my  leaf  full  low,  O  ! 
Oh  raging  fortune's  withering  blast 
Has  laid  my  leaf  full  low,  O  ! 

My  stem  was  fair,  my  bud  was  green, 
My  blossom  sweet  did  blow,  O  ; 

The  dew  fell  fesh,  the  sun  rose  mild, 
And  made  my  branches  grow,  O. 


1  "  The  above  was  an  extempore,  under  the  pressure  of  a  heavy 
train  of  misfortunes,  which  indeed  threatened  to  undo  me  alto- 
gether."—B. 


EPISTLE   TO  DAVIE.  83 

Bat  luckless  fortune's  northern  storms 

Laid  a'  my  blossoms  low,  O  ! 
But  luckless  fortune's  northern  storms 

Laid  a'  my  blossoms  low,  O  ! 


EPISTLE  TO    DAVIE, 

A    BROTHER   I>OET. 

TXTIIILE  winds  frae  aff  Ben-Lomond  blaw 
And  bar  the  doors  wi'  driving  snaw, 
And  hing  us  owre  the  ingle, 
I  set  me  down  to  pass  the  time, 
And  spin  a  verse  or  two  o'  rhyme, 

In  namely  westlin'  jingle. 
While  frosty  winds  blaw  in  the  drift, 

Ben  to  the  chimla  lug, 
I  grudge  a  wee  the  great  folk's  gift, 
That  live  sae  bien  and  snug  : 
I  tent  less,  and  want  less 
Their  roomy  fireside  ; 
But  hanker  and  canker 
To  see  their  cursed  pride. 

It 's  hardly  in  a  body's  power 

To  keep,  at  times,  frae  being  sour, 

To  see  how  things  are  shared  ; 
How  best  o'  chiels  are  whiles  in  want, 
While  coofs  en  countless  thousands  rant, 

And  ken  na  how  to  wair  't ; 
But,  Davie,  lad,  ne'er  fash  your  head; 


84  EPISTLE   TO   DAVIE. 

Though  we  hae  little  gear, 
We  're  fit  to  win  our  daily  bread, 
As  lang  's  we  're  hale  and  fier : 
'  Mair  spier  na,  nor  fear  na,' 

Auld  age  ne'er  mind  a  feg, 
The  last  o'  't,  the  warst  o'  't, 
Is  only  but  to  beg. 

To  he  in  kilns  and  barns  at  e'en, 

When  banes  are  crazed,  and  bluid  is  thin, 

Is  doubtless  great  distress  ! 
Yet  then  content  could  make  us  blest ; 
Even  then,  sometimes  we  'd  snatch  a  taste 

Of  truest  happiness. 
The  honest  heart  that 's  free  frae  a' 

Intended  fraud  or  guile, 
However  fortune  kick  the  ba', 
Has  aye  some  cause  to  smile : 
And  mind  still,  you  '11  find  still, 

A  comfort  this  nae  sma' ; 
Nae  mair  then,  we  '11  care  then, 
Nae  farther  we  can  fa'. 

What  though,  like  commoners  of  air, 
We  wander  out  we  know  not  where, 

But  either  house  or  hal'  ? 
Yet  nature's  charms,  the  hills  and  woods, 
The  sweeping  vales,  and  foaming  floods, 

Are  free  alike  to  all. 
In  days  when  daisies  deck  the  ground, 

And  blackbirds  whistle  clear, 
With  honest  joy  our  hearts  will  bound 

To  see  the  coming  year  : 


EPISTLE   TO  DAVIE.  85 

On  braes  when  we  please  then, 
We  '11  sit  and  sowth  a  tune  ; 

Syne  rhyme  till 't,  we  '11  time  till  % 
And  sing 't  when  we  hae  dune, 

It 's  no  in  titles  nor  in  rank, 

It 's  no  in  wealth  like  Lon'on  bank, 

To  purchase  peace  and  rest ; 
It 's  no  in  making  muckle  mair  ; 
It 's  no  in  books  ;  it 's  no  in  lear, 

To  mak  us  truly  blest ; 
If'  happiness  hae  not  her  seat 

And  centre  in  the  breast, 
We  may  be  wise,  or  rich,  or  great, 
But  never  can  be  blest ; 

Kae  treasures  nor  pleasures 

Could  make  us  happy  lang ; 
The  heart  aye  's  the  part  aye 
That  makes  us  right  or  wrang. 

Think  ye,  that  sic  as  you  and  I, 

Wha  drudge  and  drive  through  wet  and  dry 

Wi'  never-ceasing  toil ; 
Think  ye,  we  are  less  blest  than  they, 
Wha  scarcely  tent  us  in  their  way, 

As  hardly  worth  their  while  ? 
Alas  !  how  aft,  in  haughty  mood, 
God's  creatures  they  oppress  ! 
Or  else,  neglecting  a'  that 's  guid, 
They  riot  in  excess  ! 

Baith  careless  and  fearless 

Of  either  heaven  or  hell ! 
Esteeming  and  deeming 
It 's  a'  an  idle  tale  1 


(  EPISTLE   TO  DAVIE. 

Then  let  us  cheerfu'  acquiesce ; 
Nor  make  our  scanty  pleasures  less, 

By  pining  at  our  state ; 
And  even  should  misfortunes  come, 
I,  here  wha  sit,  hae  met  wi'  some, 

An  's  thankfu'  for  them  yet. 
They  gie  the  wit  of  age  to  youth ; 

They  let  us  ken  oursel' ; 
They  make  us  see  the  naked  truth, 
The  real  guid  and  ill. 

Though  losses  and  crosses 
Be  lessons  right  severe, 
There  's  wit  there,  ye  '11  get  there, 
Ye  '11  find  nae  other  where. 

But  tent  me,  Davie,  ace  o'  hearts  ! 

(To  say  aught  less  wad  wrang  the  cartes 

And  flatt'ry  I  detest) 
This  life  has  joys  for  you  and  I ; 
And  joys  that  riches  ne'er  could  buy  ; 

And  joys  the  very  best. 
There  's  a'  the  pleasures  o'  the  heart, 

The  lover  and  the  frien' ; 
Yi  hae  your  Meg,  your  dearest  part, 
And  I  my  darling  Jean  ! 
It  warms  me,  it  charms  me, 

To  mention  but  her  name : 
It  heats  me,  it  beets  me, 
And  sets  me  a'  on  flame ! 

Oh  all  ye  powers  who  rule  above ! 
Oh  Thou  whoso  very  self  art  love  S 
Thou  know'st  my  words  sincere  ! 


EPISTLE   TO   DAVIE. 

The  life-blood  streaming  through  my  heart, 
Or  my  more  dear  immortal  part, 

Is  not  more  fondly  dear  ! 
When  heart-corroding  care  and  grief 

Deprive  my  soul  of  rest, 
Her  dear  idea  brings  relief 
And  solace  to  my  breast. 
Thou  Being,  all-seeing, 

Oh  hear  my  fervent  prayer  i 
Still  take  her,  and  make  her 
Thy  most  peculiar  care  ! 

All  hail,  ye  tender  feelings  dear  ! 
The  smile  of  love,  the  friendly  tear, 

The  sympathetic  glow  ! 
Long  since,  this  world's  thorny  ways 
Had  numbered  out  my  weary  days, 

Had  it  not  been  for  you ! 
Fate  still  has  blest  me  with  a  friend 

In  every  care  and  ill  ; 
And  oft  a  more  endearing  band, 
A  tie  more  tender  still. 
It  lightens,  it  brightens 
The  tenebrific  scene, 
To  meet  with,  and  greet  with 
My  Davie  or  my  Jean  ! 

Oh  how  that  name  inspires  my  style! 
The  words  come  skelpiu',  rank  and  file. 

Amaist  before  I  ken  ! 
The  ready  measure  rins  as  fine 
As  Phoebus  and  the  famous  Nin8 

Were  glowrin'  owre  my  pen. 


I  DEATH  AND  DR.   HORNBOOK. 

My  spaviet  Pegasus  will  limp, 

Till  ance  he  's  fairly  het ; 
And  then  he  '11  hilch,  and  stilt,  and  jimp, 
And  rin  an  unco  fit : 

But  lest  then,  the  beast  then 

Should  rut-  this  hasty  ride, 

I  '11  light  now,  and  dight  now 

His  sweaty,  wizened  hide. 


DEATH  AND  DR.  HORNBOOK: 

A  TRUE    STORY. 

COME  books  are  lies  frae  end  to  end, 

And  some  great  lies  were  never  penned 
Ev'n  ministers  they  hae  been  kenned, 

In  holy  rapture, 
A  rousing  whid  at  times  to  vend, 

And  nail 't  wi'  Scripture. 

But  this  that  I  am  gaun  to  tell, 
Which  lately  on  a  night  befell, 
Is  just  as  true 's  the  deil  's  in  hell, 

Or  Dublin  city : 
That  e'er  he  nearer  comes  oursel' 

'S  a  muckle  pity. 

The  clachan  yill  had  made  me  canty  — 
I  was  na  fou,  by*-  just  had  plenty ; 


DEATH  AND   DR.  HORNBOOK.  89 

I  etachered  whyles,  but  yet  took  tent  aye 

To  free  the  ditches  ; 
And  hillocks,  stanes,  and  bushes  kenn'd  aye 
Frae  ghaists  and  witches. 

The  rising  moon  began  to  glow'r 
The  distant  Cumnock  hills  out-owre  : 
To  count  her  horns,  wi'  a'  my  power, 

I  set  mysel' ; 
But  whether  she  had  three  or  four, 

I  could  na  tell. 

I  was  come  round  about  the  hill, 
And  todlin'  down  on  Willie's  mill. 
Setting  my  staff  wi'  a'  my  skill, 

To  keep  me  sicker  ; 
Though  leeward  whyles,  against  my  will. 

I  took  a  bicker. 

I  there  wi'  Something  did  forgather, 

That  put  me  in  an  eerie  swither  ; 

An  awfu'  scythe,  out-owre  ae  shouther. 

Clear-dangling,  hang ; 
A  three-taed  leister  on  the  ither 

Lay,  large  and  lang. 

Its  stature  seemed  lang  Scotch  ells  twa, 
The  queerest  shape  that  e'er  I  saw  ; 
For  fient  a  wame  it  had  ava ; 

And  then,  its  shanks, 
They  were  as  thin,  as  sharp  and  sma', 

As  cheeks  o'  branks. 


90  DEATH  AND   DR.    HORNBOOK. 

'*  Guid  e'en,"  quo'  I ;  "  friend,  hae  ye  been 

mawin', 
When  ither  folk  are  busy  sawin'  ?  " 
It  seemed  to  mak  a  kind  o'  stan', 

But  naething  spak  ; 
At  length  says  1 :  "  Friend,  whare  ye  gaun  ? 

Will  ye  go  back  ?  " 

It  spake  right  howe  :  "  My  name  is  Death, 
But  be  na  fley'd."  Quoth  I :  t;  Guid  faith, 
Ye  're  maybe  come  to  stap  my  breath  ; 

But  tent  me,  billie  — 
I  red  ye  weel,  tak  care  o'  scaith, 

See,  there  's  a  gully  !  " 

"  Guidman,"  quo'  he,  "  put  up  your  whittle, 
I  'm  no  designed  to  try  its  mettle  ; 
But  if  I  did,  I  wad  be  kittle 

To  be  mislear'd  ; 
I  wadna  mind  it,  no  that  spittle 

Out-owre  my  beard." 

"  Weel,  weel !  "  says  I,  "  a  bargain  be 't ; 
Come,  gie  's  your  hand,  and  say  we  're  gree't  ? 
We  '11  ease  our  shanks  and  tak  a  seat  — 

Come,  gie  's  your  news  ; 
This  while  ye  hae  been  mony  a  gaet, 

At  mony  a  house." 

"Ay,  ay  !  "  quo'  lie,  ami  shook  his  head, 
"  It 's  e'en  a  lang  lang  time  indeed 
Sin'  I  began  to  nick  the  thread, 

And  choke  the  breath  ; 


DEATH  AND  DR    HORNBOOK.  91 

Folk  maun  do  something  for  their  bread, 
And  sau  maun  Death. 

"  Sax  thousand  years  are  near  hand  fled 

Sin'  I  was  to  the  hutching  bred, 

And  mony  a  scheme  in  vain  's  been  laid, 

To  stap  or  scaur  me  ; 
Till  ane  Hornbook  's  tacn  up  the  trade, 

And  faith  he  '11  waur  me. 

"  Ye  ken  Jock  Hornbook  i'  the  clachan, 
Deil  niak  his  king's-hood  in  a  spleuchan ! 
He 's  grown  sae  weel  acquant  wi'  Buchan 

And  ither  chaps, 
The  weans  haud  out  their  fingers  laughin', 

And  pouk  my  hips. 

"  See,  here  's  a  scythe,  and  there  's  a  dart, 
They  hae  pierced  mony  a  gallant  heart ; 
But  Doctor  Hornbook  wi'  his  art 

And  cursed  skill, 
Has  made  them  baith  no  worth  a  — , 

D— d  haet  they  '11  kill. 

"'T  was  but  yestreen,  nae  further  gaen, 

I  threw  a  noble  throw  at  ane; 

Wi'  less,  I'm  sure.  I  've  hundreds  slain  ; 

But  deil-ma-eare, 
It  just  played  dirl  on  the  bane, 

But  did  nae  mair. 

"  Hornbook  was  by  wi'  ready  art. 
And  had  sae  fortified  the  part, 


92  DEATH  AND  DR.  HORNBOOK. 

That  when  I  looked  to  my  dart, 

It  was  sae  blunt, 
Fient  haet  o'  't  wad  hae  pierced  the  heart 

O'  a  kail-runt. 

"  I  drew  my  scythe  in  sic  a  fury, 
I  near  hand  cowpit  wi'  my  hurry, 
But  yet  the  bauld  apothecary 

Withstood  the  shock  ; 
I  might  as  weel  hae  tried  a  quarry 

O'  hard  whin  rock. 

"  Even  them  he  canna  get  attended, 
Although  their  face  he  ne'er  had  kenned  it, 
Just  —  in  a  kail-blade  and  send  it, 

As  soon 's  he  smells  't, 
Baith  their  disease  and  what  will  mend  it 

At  once  he  tells  't. 

u  And  then  a'  doctor's  saws  and  whittles, 
Of  a'  dimensions,  shapes,  and  metals, 
A'  kinds  o'  boxes,  mugs,  and  bottles, 

He  's  sure  to  hae  ; 
Their  Latin  names  as  fast  he  rattles 

As  AB  C. 

"  Calces  o'  fossils,  earths,  and  trees  ; 
i         True  sal-marinum  o'  the  seas ; 
The  farina  of  beans  and  peas, 

He  has  't  in  plenty  ; 
Aqua-fontis,  what  you  please, 

He  can  content  ye. 


DEATH  AND  DR.  HORNBOOK.  93 

"  Forbye  some  new,  uncommon  weapons, 

Urinus  spiritus  of  capons, 

Or  mite-horn  shavings,  filings,  scrapings, 

Distilled  per  se, 
Sal-alkali  o'  midge-tail  clippings, 

And  niony  mae." 

"  Wae  's  me  for  Johnny  Ged's  Hole  now," 
Quo'  I ;  "if  that  thae  news  be  true, 
His  braw  calf-ward  where  gowans  grew, 

Sae  white  and  bonny, 
Nae  doubt  they  11  rive  it  wi'  the  pleugh  ; 

They  '11  ruin  Johnny  ! " 

The  creature  grained  an  eldritch  laugh, 
And  says  :  "  Ye  need  na  yoke  the  pleugh, 
Kirkyards  will  soon  be  tilled  eneugh, 

Tak  ye  nae  fear  : 
They  '11  a'  be  trenched  wi'  mony  a  sheugh, 

In  twa-three  year. 

"  Whare  I  killed  ane  a  fair  strae  death, 
By  loss  o'  blood  or  want  o'  breath, 
This  ni"ht,  I  'm  free  to  tak  my  aith, 

That  Hornbook's  skill 
Has  clad  a  score  i'  their  last  claith, 

By  drap  and  pill. 

"An  honest  wabster  to  his  trade, 
Whase  wife's  twa  nieves  were  scarce  weel-bred 
Gat  tippence-worth  to  mend  her  head, 
When  it  was  sair ; 


94  DEATH  AND  DR.  HORNBOOK. 

The  wife  slade  cannie  to  her  bed, 
But  ne'er  spak  mair. 

"  A  bonny  lass,  ye  ken  her  name, 

Some  ill-brewn  drink  had  hoved  her  wame 

She  trusts  herseP,  to  hide  the  shame, 

To  Hornbook's  care ; 
Horn  sent  her  aff  to  her  lang  hame, 

To  hide  it  there. 

"  A  country  laird  had  taen  the  batts, 
Or  some  curmurring  in  his  guts  ; 
His  only  son  for  Hornbook  sets, 

And  pays  him  well  — 
The  lad,  for  twa  guid  gimmer-pets, 

Was  laird  himsel', 

"  That 's  just  a  swatch  o'  Hornbook's  way ; 
Thus  goes  he  on  from  day  to  day, 
Thus  does  he  poison,  kill,  and  slay, 

An  's  weel  paid  for 't ; 
Yet  stops  me  o'  my  lawfu'  prey 

Wi'  his  d — d  dirt. 

"  But  hark  !  I  '11  tell  you  of  a  plot, 
Though  dinna  ye  be  speaking  o'  't ; 
I'll  nail  the  self-conceited  sot 

As  dead  's  a  herrin' : 
Niest  time  we  meet,  I  '11  wad  a  groat, 

He  gets  his  fairin' !  " 

But  just  as  he  began  to  tell, 

The  auld  kirk-hammer  strak  the  bell, 


EPISTLE   TO  LAPRAIK.  95 

Some  wee  short  hour  ayont  the  twal, 
Which  raised  us  baith  : 

I  took  the  way  that  pleased  mysel', 
And  sae  did  Death. 


EPISTLE  TO  J.  LAPRAIK, 

AN    OLD    SCOTTISH    BARD. 

Y\TiriLE  briers  and  woodbines  budding  green, 

And  pai tricks  scraichin'  loud  at  e'en, 
And  morning  poussie  whiddin  seen, 

Inspire  my  Muse, 
This  freedom  in  an  unknown  frien' 

I  pray  excuse. 

On  Fasten-e'en  we  had  a  rockin", 

To  ca'  the  crack  and  weave  our  stockin' , 

And  there  was  muckle  fun  and  jokin', 

Ye  need  na  doubt ; 
At  length  we  had  a  hearty  yokin' 

At  sang  about. 

There  was  ae  sang,  amang  the  rest, 
Aboon  them  a'  it  pleased  me  best, 
That  some  kind  husband  had  addrest 

To  some  sweet  wife  : 
It  thirled  the  heart-strings  through  the  breast, 

A'  to  the  lite. 

I  've  scarce  heard  ought  described  sae  weeh 
Wbat  generous  manly  bosoms  feel; 


EPISTLE   TO  LAPRAIK. 

Thought  I,  "  Can  this  be  Pope,  or  Steele, 

Or  Beattie's  wark  ?  " 
They  tauld  me  't  was  an  odd  kind  chiel 

About  Muirkirk. 

It  pat  me  fidgin-fain  to  hear  't, 
And  sae  about  him  there  I  spier  't, 
Then  a'  that  kent  him  round  declared 

He  had  ingine, 
That  nane  excelled  it,  few  cam  near 't, 

It  was  sae  fine. 

That,  set  him  to  a  pint  of  ale, 

And  either  douce  or  merry  tale, 

Or  rhymes  and  sangs  he  'd  made  himsel', 

Or  witty  catches, 
'Tween  Inverness  and  Teviotdale, 

He  had  few  matches. 

Then  up  I  gat,  and  swore  an  aith, 

Though  I  should  pawn  my  plough  and  graith, 

Or  die  a  cadger  pownie's  death 

At  some  dyke  back, 
A  pint  and  gill  I  'd  gie  them  baith 

To  hear  your  crack. 

But,  first  and  foremost,  I  should  tell, 
Amaist  as  soon  as  I  could  spell, 
I  to  the  crambo-jingle  fell, 

Though  rude  and  rough, 
Yet  crooning  to  a  body's  sell, 

Does  weel  eneugh. 


EPISTLE  TO  LAPRAIK.  97 

I  am  nae  poet,  in  a  sense, 

But  just  a  rhymer,  like,  by  chance, 

And  hae  to  learning  nae  pretence, 

Yet,  what  the  matter  1 
Whene'er  my  Muse  does  on  me  glance, 

I  jingle  at  her. 

Your  critic  folk  may  cock  their  nose, 
And  say :  "  How  can  you  e'er  propose, 
You,  wha  ken  hardly  verse  frae  prose, 

To  mak  a  sang  ?  " 
But,  by  your  leaves,  my  learned  foes, 

Ye  're  maybe  wrang. 

What  'a  a'  your  jargon  o'  your  schools, 
Your  Latin  names  for  horns  and  stools  ? 
If  honest  Nature  made  you  fools, 

What  sairs  your  grammars  ? 
Ye  'd  better  taen  up  spades  and  shools, 

Or  knappin-hammers. 

A  set  o'  dull  conceited  hashes, 
Confuse  their  brains  in  college-classes ! 
They  gang  in  stirks,  and  come  out  asses, 

Plain  truth  to  speak  ; 
And  syne  they  think  to  climb  Parnassus 

By  dint  o*  Greek  ! 

Gie  me  ae  spark  o*  Nature's  fire ! 
That  '8  a'  the  learning  I  desire ; 
Then  though  I  drudge  through  dub  and  mire 
At  pleugh  or  cart, 

VOfc.  L  7 


98  EPISTLE  TO  LAPRAIK. 

My  Muse,  though  hamely  in  attire, 
May  touch  the  heart. 

Oh  for  a  spunk  o'  Allan's  glee, 
Or  Fergusson's,  the  bauld  and  slee, 
Or  bright  Lapraik's,  my  friend  to  be. 

If  I  can  hit  it ! 
That  would  be  lear  eneugh  for  me, 

If  I  could  get  it  1 

Now,  sir,  if  ye  hae  friends  enow, 
Though  real  friends  I  b'lieve  are  few, 
Yet,  if  your  catalogue  be  fou, 

I  'se  no  insist, 
But  gif  ye  want  ae  friend  that 's  true, 

I  'in  on  your  list. 

I  winna  blaw  about  mysel' ; 

As  ill  I  like  my  fauts  to  tell  ; 

But  friends  and  folk  that  wish  me  well, 

They  sometimes  roose  me  ; 
Though  I  maun  own,  as  monie  still 

As  far  abuse  me. 

But  Mauchline  race,  or  Mauchline  fair, 
I  should  be  proud  to  meet  you  there ; 
We  'se  gie  ae  night's  discharge  to  Care, 

If  we  forgather, 
And  hae  a  swap  o'  rhymin'-ware 

Wi'  ane  anither. 

The  four-gill  chap,  we  'se  gar  him  clatter 
And  kirsen  him  wi'  reekin'  water ; 


SECOND  EPISTLE   TO  LAPRA1K.  99 

Syne  we  11  sit  down  and  tak  our  whitter, 

To  cheer  our  heart ; 
And,  faith,  we  'se  be  acquainted  better 

Before  we  part. 

Awa'  ye  selfish  warly  race. 

Wha  think  that  havins,  sense,  and  grace, 

Even  love  and  friendship  should  give  place 

To  catch  the  plack  ! 
I  dinua  like  to  see  your  face, 

Nor  hear  your  crack. 

But  ye  whom  social  pleasure  charms, 
Whose  hearts  the  tide  of  kindness  warms, 
"Who  hold  your  being  on  the  terms, 

"  Each  aid  the  others," 
Come  to  my  bowl,  come  to  my  arms, 

My  friends,  my  brothers  I 

But,  to  conclude  my  lang  epistle, 

As  my  auld  pen 's  worn  to  the  grissle ; 

Twa  lines  frae  you  wad  gar  me  fissle, 

Who  am,  most  fervent, 
While  I  can  either  sing  or  whissle, 

Your  friend  and  servant. 


SECOND  EPISTLE   TO  J.  LAPRAIK. 

\\^"HILE  new-ca'd  kye  rowte  at  the  stake; 
And  pownies  reek  in  pleugh  or  braik, 
This  hour  on  e'enin's  edge  I  take, 
To  own  I  *m  debtor, 


100        SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  LAPRAIK. 

To  honest-hearted  auld  Lapraik, 
For  his  kind  letter. 

Forjeskit  sair,  wi'  weary  legs, 
Rattlin'  the  corn  out-owre  the  rigs, 
Or  dealing  through  amang  the  naigs 

Their  ten-hours'  bite, 
My  awkwart  Muse  sair  pleads  and  begs 

I  would  na  write. 

The  tapetless  ramfeezPd  hizzie, 

She 's  saft  at  best,  and  something  lazy, 

Quo'  she :  "  Ye  ken,  we  've  been  sae  busy 

This  month  and  mair, 
That  trouth,  my  head  is  grown  right  dizzie, 

And  something  sair." 

Her  dowff  excuses  pat  me  mad  : 

"  Conscience,"  says  I,  "  ye  thowless  jad ! 

I  '11  write,  and  that  a  hearty  blaud, 

This  very  night ; 
Sae  dinna  ye  affront  your  trade, 

But  rhyme  it  right. 

"  Shall  bauld  Lapraik,  the  king  o'  hearts, 
Though  mankind  were  a  pack  o'  cartes, 
Roose  you  sae  weel  for  your  deserts, 

In  terms  sae  friendly, 
Yet  ye  '11  neglect  to  shaw  your  parts, 

And  thank  him  kindly  ?  " 

Sae  I  gat  paper  in  a  blink, 

And  down  gaed  stumpie  in  the  ink : 


SECOND   EPISTLE   TO  LAPRAIK.         101 

Quoth  I :  "  Before  I  sleep  a  wink; 

I  vt>w  r'H  elbb?  it ; 
And  if  ye  winna  mak  it  clink, 

By  Jove*  I  'H  j^Tcse^ib  \ " 

Sae  I  've  begun  to  scrawl,  but  whether 
In  rhyme,  or  prose,  or  baith  thegither, 
Or  some  hotch-potch  that 's  rightly  neither, 

Let  time  mak  proof; 
But  I  shall  scribble  down  some  blether, 

Just  clean  afT-loof. 

My  worthy  friend,  ne'er  grudge  and  carp, 
Though  fortune  use  you  hard  and  sharp ; 
Come,  kittle  up  your  moorland  harp 

Wi'  gleesome  touch  ; 
Ne'er  mind  how  Fortune  waft  and  warp  — 

She  's  but  a  b — h  ! 

She  's  gien  me  monie  a  jirt  and  fleg, 
Sin'  I  could  striddle  owre  a  rig  ; 
But,  by  the  L — ,  though  I  should  beg 

Wi'  lyart  pow, 
I  '11  laugh,  and  sing,  and  shake  my  leg, 

As  lang  's  I  dow  1 

Now  comes  the  sax-and-twentieth  simmer, 
I  've  seen  the  bud  upo'  the  timmer, 
Still  persecuted  by  the  limmer, 

Frae  year  to  year  ; 
But  yet,  despite  the  kittle  kimmer, 

I,  Bx>b,  am  here. 


102      SECOND   EPISTLE   TO  LAPRAIK. 

Do  ye  envy  the  ■city  gent, 

Bekiut  a  kist  10  h'e  and  sklent, 

Or  purae-proud.  .big  wi'  cent.,  per  cent. 

.  ,     ;  4-  o  And  muckie.yvame, 
In  some  bit  brugh  to  represent 
A  bailie's  name  ? 

Or  is  't  the  paughty,  feudal  thane, 
Wi'  ruffled  sark  and  glancing  cane, 
Wha  thinks  himsel'  nae  sheep-shank  bane, 

But  lordly  stalks, 
While  caps  and  bonnets  aff  are  taen, 

As  by  he  walks  ? 

Oh  Thou  wha  gies  us  each  guid  gift  ! 
Gie  me  o*  wit  and  sense  a  lift, 
Then  turn  me,  if  Thou  please,  adrift, 

Through  Scotland  wide  ; 
Wi'  cits  nor  lairds  I  wadna  shift, 

In  a'  their  pride  ! 

Were  this  the  charter  of  our  state, 
"  On  pain  o'  hell  be  rich  and  great," 
Damnation  then  would  be  our  fate, 

Beyond  remead  ; 
But,  thanks  to  Heaven,  that 's  no  the  gaet 

We  learn  our  creed. 

For  thus  the  royal  mandate  ran, 
When  first  the  human  race  began  — 
u  The  social,  friendly,  honest  man, 
Whate'er  he  be, 


EPISTLE    TO   GOV  DIE.  108 

'T  is  he  fulfils  great  Nature's  plan, 
And  none  but  he  1 " 

Oh  mandate  glorious  and  divine  ! 
The  followers  o'  the  ragged  Nine, 
Poor  thoughtless  devils  !  yet  may  shine 

In  glorious  light, 
While  sordid  sons  o'  Mammon's  line 

Are  dark  as  night. 

Though  here  they  scrape,  and  squeeze,  and 

growl, 
Their  worthless  nievefu'  of  a  soul 
May  in  some  future  carcass  howl, 

The  forest's  fright ; 
Or  in  some  day-detestin'  owl 

May  shun  the  light. 

Then  may  Lapraik  and  Burns  arise, 
To  reach  their  native  kindred  skies, 
And  sing  their  pleasures,  hopes,  and  joys, 

In  some  mild  sphere, 
Still  closer  knit  in  friendship's  ties, 

Each  passing  year ! 


KPISTLE  TO  JOHN   GOUDIE    OF    KILMARNOCK, 

ON   THE   PUBLICATION   OF     HIS   ESSAYS. 

/^\H,  Goudie  !  terror  of  the  Whigs, 

Dread  of  black  coats  and  reverend  wigs, 


L04  EPISTLE    TO   GOUDIE. 

Sour  Bigotry,  on  her  last  legs, 

Girnin',  looks  back, 
Wishin'  the  ten  Egyptian  plagues 

Wad  seize  you  quick. 

Poor  gapin',  glowrin'  Si-  perstition, 

Wae  's  me  !  she 's  in  a  sad  condition  ; 

Fie !  bring  Black  Jock,  her  state-physician, 

To  see  her  water. 
Alas  !  there 's  ground  o'  great  suspicion 

She  '11  ne'er  get  better. 

Auld  Orthodoxy  lang  did  grapple, 
But  now  she  's  got  an  unco  ripple  ; 
Haste,  gie  her  name  up  i'  the  chapel, 

Nigh  unto  death ; 
See,  how  she  fetches  at  the  thrapple, 

And  gasps  for  breath. 

Enthusiasm 's  past  redemption, 

Gane  in  a  galloping  consumption, 

Not  a'  the  quacks,  wi'  a'  their  gumption, 

Will  ever  mend  her. 
Her  feeble  pulse  gies  strong  presumption 

Death  soon  will  end  her. 

*T  is  you  and  Taylor  are  the  chief 
Wha  are  to  blame  for  this  mischief, 
But  gin  the  L — 's  ain  fouk  gat  leave, 

A  toom  tar-barrel 
And  twa  red  peats  wad  send  relief 

And  end  the  quarrel. 


THE   TWA  HEHDB.  I0.r 


THE  TWA   HERDS;   OR,  THE  HOLY  TULZIE 

/"^H  a'  ye  pious  godly  flocks, 

^^^   Weel  fed  on  pastures  orthodox, 

Wha  now  will  keep  ye  frae  the  fox, 

Or  worrying  tykes, 
Or  wha  will  tent  the  wails  and  crooks, 

About  the  dikes  V 

The  twa  best  herds  in  a'  the  wast, 
That  e'er  gae  Gospel-horn  a  blast, 
These  live-and-twenty  simmers  past, 

Oh  dool  to  tell, 
Hae  had  a  bitter  black  outcast 

Atween  themsel'. 

Oh,  Hoodie,  man,  and  wordy  Russell, 
How  could  you  raise  so  vile  a  bustle  ! 
Ye  '11  see  how  New-Light  herds  will  whistle. 

And  think  it  fine  : 
The  L — 's  cause  ne'er  got  sic  a  twistle 

Sin'  I  hae  min'. 

Oh,  sirs  !  whae'er  wad  hae  expeckit, 

Your  duty  ye  wad  sae  negleckit, 

Ye  wha  were  ne'er  by  lairds  respeckit, 

To  wear  the  plaid, 
But  by  the  brutes  themselves  eleckit, 

To  be  their-  guide. 

What  flock  wi'  Moodie's  flock  could  rank, 
Sae  hale  and  hearty  every  shank  I 


106  THE   TWA  HERDS. 

Nae  poisoned  sour  Anninian  stank 

He  let  them  taste, 
Frae  Calvin's  well,  aye  clear,  they  drank  — 

Oh  sic  a  feast ! 

The  thumniart,  wil'-cat,  brock,  and  tod, 
Weel  kenn'd  his  voice  through  a'  the  wood, 
He  smelt  their  ilka  hole  and  road, 

Baith  out  and  in, 
And  weel  he  liked  to  shed  their  bluid, 

And  sell  their  skin. 

What  herd  like  Russell  telled  his  tale, 

His  voice  was  heard  through  muir  and  dale, 

He  kenn'd  the  L — 's  sheep,  ilka  tail, 

O'er  a'  the  height, 
And  saw  gin  they  were  sick  or  hale, 

At  the  first  sight. 

He  fine  a  mangy  sheep  could  scrub, 

Or  nobly  fling  the  Gospel  club, 

And  New-Light  herds  could  nicely  drub, 

Or  pay  their  skin  ; 
Could  shake  them  o'er  the  burning  dub, 

Or  heave  them  in. 

Sic  twa  —  on,  do  I  live  to  see 't, 
Sic  famous  twa  should  disagreet, 
And  names  like  villain,  hypocrite, 

Ilk  ither  gi'en, 
While  New-Light  herds,  wi'  laughin'  spite, 

Say  neither 's  liein' ! 


THE  TWA  HERDS.  107 

A'  ye  wha  tent  the  Gospel  fauld, 

There 's  Duncan,  deep,  and  Peebles,  shaul, 

But.  chiefly  thou,  apostle  Auld, 

We  trust  in  thee, 
That  thou  wilt  work  them,  het  and  cauld, 

Till  they  agree. 

Consider,  sirs,  how  we  're  beset ; 
There  's  scarce  a  new  herd  that  we  get, 
But  comes  frae  'mang  that  cursed  set 

I  winna  name  ; 
I  hope  frae  heaven  to  see  them  yet 

In  fiery  flame. 

Dalrymple  has  been  lang  our  fae, 
M'Gill  has  wrought  us  meikle  wae, 
And  that  cursed  rascal  ca'd  M'Quhae, 

And  baith  the  Shaws, 
That  aft  hae  made  us  black  and  blae, 

Wi'  vengefu'  paws. 

Auld  Wodrow  lang  has  hatched  mischief, 
We  thought  aye  death  wad  bring  relief, 
But  he  has  gotten,  to  our  grief, 

Ane  to  succeed  him, 
A  chield  wha '11  soundly  buff  our  beef; 

I  meikle  dread  him. 

And  monie  a  ane  that  I  could  tell, 
Wha  fain  would  openly  rebel, 
Forby  turn-coats  amang  ourseF  ; 
There  's  Smith  for  ane, 


108  EPISTLE   TO  SIMPSON. 

I  doubt  he 's  but  a  gray-nick  quill, 
And  that  ye  '11  fin'. 

Oh  a'  ye  flocks  o'er  a'  the  hills, 

By  mosses,  meadows,  moors,  and  fells, 

Come,  join  your  counsel  and  your  skills 

To  cowe  the  lairds, 
And  get  the  brutes  the  powers  themsels 

To  choose  their  herds. 

Then  Orthodoxy  yet  may  prance, 
And  Learning  in  a  woody  dance, 
And  that  fell  cur  ca'd  Common  Sense, 

That  bites  sae  sair, 
Be  banished  o'er  the  sea  to  France  : 

Let  him  bark  there. 

Then  Shaw's  and  D'rymple's  eloquence, 
M'Gill's  close  nervous  excellence, 
M'Quhae's  pathetic  manly  sense, 

And  guid  M'Math, 
Wi'  Smith,  wha  through  the  heart  can  glance, 

May  a'  pack  aff. 


TO  WILLIAM  S[IMPSON], 

OCHILTREE. 

GAT  your  letter,  winsome  Willie ; 
Wi'  gratefu  heart  I  thank  you  brawly ; 


EPISTLE   TO  SIMPSON.  109 

Though  I  maun  say 't,  I  wad  be  silly, 

And  unco  vain, 
Should  I  believe,  my  coaxin'  billie, 

Your  flatterin'  strain. 

But  I  'se  believe  ye  kindly  meant  it, 
I  sud  be  laith  to  think  ye  hinted 
Ironic  satire,  sidelins  sklented 

On  my  poor  Musie  ; 
Though  in  sic  phrasin'  terms  ye  've  penned  it 

I  scarce  excuse  ye. 

My  senses  wad  be  in  a  creel, 
Should  I  but  dare  a  hope  to  speel 
Wi'  Allan  or  wi'  Gilbertfield, 

The  braes  o'  fame  ; 
Or  Fergusson,  the  writer  chiel, 

A  deathless  name. 

(Oh,  Fergusson  !  thy  glorious  parts 

HI  suited  law's  dry  musty  arts  ! 

My  curse  upon  your  whunstane  hearts, 

Ye  E'nbrugh  gentry ; 
The  tithe  o'  what  ye  waste  at  cartes 

Wad  stowed  his  pantry  !) 

Yet  when  a  tale  comes  i'  my  head, 

Or  lasses  gie  my  heart  a  screed, 

As  whiles  they  're  like  to  be  my  dead, 

(Oh  sad  disease!) 
I  kittle  up  my  rustic  reed  ; 

It  gies  me  ease. 


HO  EPISTLE   TO   SEME  SON. 

Auld  Coila  now  may  fidge  fu'  fain, 

She  's  gotten  poets  o'  her  ain, 

Chiels  wha  their  chanters  winna  hain, 

But  tune  their  lays, 
Till  echoes  a'  resound  again 

Her  weel-sung  praise. 

Nae  poet  thought  her  worth  his  while, 
To  set  her  name  in  measured  style  ; 
She  lay  like  some  unkenn'd-of  isle 

Beside  New  Holland, 
Or  whare  wild-meeting  oceans  boil 

Besouth  Magellan. 

Ramsay  and  famous  Fergusson 
Gied  Forth  and  Tay  a  lift  aboon ; 
Yarrow  and  Tweed,  to  monie  a  tune, 

Owre  Scotland  rings ; 
While  Irwin,  Lugar,  Ayr,  and  Doon, 

Naebody  sings. 

Th'  Blissus,  Tiber,  Thames,  and  Seine, 
Glide  sweet  in  monie  a  tunefu'  line  ; 
But,  Willie,  set  your  fit  to  mine, 

And  cock  your  crest, 
We  '11  gar  our  streams  and  burnies  shine 

Up  wi'  the  best ! 

We  '11  sing  auld  Coila's  plains  and  fells, 
Her  moors  red-brown  wi'  heather-bells, 
Her  banks  and  braes,  her  dens  and  dells, 
Where  glorious  Wallace 


EPISTLE   TO  SIMPSON.  Ill 

Aft  bure  the  gree,  as  story  tells, 
Frae  southron  billies. 

At  Wallace'  name  what  Scottish  blood 
But  boils  up  in  a  spring-tide  flood  ! 
Oft  have  our  fearless  fathers  strode 

By  Wallace'  side, 
Still  pressing  onward,  red-wat  shod, 

Or  glorious  died  ! 

O  sweet  are  Coila's  haughs  and  woods 
When  lir.twhites  chant  amang  the  buds, 
And  jinkin'  hares,  in  amorous  whids, 

Their  loves  enjoy, 
While  through  the  braes  the  cushat  croods 

With  wailfu'  cry ! 

Even  winter  bleak  has  charms  to  me, 
When  winds  rave  through  the  naked  tree ; 
Or  frosts  on  hills  of  Ochiltree 

Are  hoary  gray ; 
Or  blinding  drifts  wild  furious  flee, 

Darkening  the  day  ! 

O  Nature !  a'  thy  shows  and  forms 
To  feeling,  pensive  hearts  hae  charms ! 
Whether  the  summer  kindly  warms, 

Wi'  life  and  light, 
Or  winter  howls,  in  gusty  storms, 

The  lang,  dark  night  ! 

The  Muse,  nae  poet  ever  fand  her, 
Till  by  himser  he  learned  to  wander, 


112  EPISTLE  TO  SIMPSON. 

Adown  some  trotting  burn's  meander, 

And  no  think  lang  ; 
0  sweet,  to  stray  and  pensive  ponder 

A  heartfelt  sang  1 

The  war'ly  race  may  drudge  and  drive, 
Hog-shouther,  jundie,  stretch  and  strive ; 
Lst  me  fair  Nature's  face  descrive, 

And  I  wi'  pleasure, 
Shall  let  the  busy  grumbling  hive 

Bum  owre  their  treasure. 

Fareweel,  "  my  rhyme-composing  brither  1 " 
We  've  been  owre  lang  unkenn'd  to  ither  : 
Now  let  us  lay  our  heads  thegither, 

In  love  fraternal ; 
May  Envy  wallop  in  a  tether, 

Black  fiend  infernal ! 

While  Highlandmen  hate  tolls  and  taxes ; 
While  moorlan'  herds  like  guid  fat  braxies, 
While  terra  firma  on  her  axis 

Diurnal  turns, 
Count  on  a  friend,  in  faith  and  practice, 

In  Robert  Burns. 


postscript. 

My  memory 's  no  worth  a  preen  ; 
I  had  amaist  forgotten  clean, 
Ye  bade  me  write  you  what  thev  mean 
By  this  New  Light, 


EPISTLE  TO  SIMPSON.  IV- 

'Bout  which  our  herds  sae  aft  hae  been 
Maist  like  to  fight. 

In  days  when  mankind  were  but  callans 

At  grammar,  logic,  and  sic  talents, 

They  took  nae  pains  their  speech  to  balance, 

Or  rules  to  gie, 
But  spak  their  thoughts  in  plain  braid  lallan? 

Like  you  or  rae. 

[n  thae  auld  times,  they  thought  the  moon. 
Just  like  a  sark,  or  pair  o'  shoon, 
Wore  by  degrees,  till  her  last  roon 

Gaed  past  their  viewing, 
And  shortly  after  she  was  done, 

They  gat  a  new  one. 

This  passed  for  certain  —  undisputed  ; 
ft  ne'er  cam  i'  their  heads  to  doubt  it, 
Till  chiels  gat  up,  ami  wad  confute  it, 

And  ca'd  it  wrang  ; 
And  muckle  din  there  was  about  it, 

Baith  loud  and  lang. 

Some  herds,  well  learned  upo'  the  beuk, 
Wad  threap  auld  folk  the  thing  misteuk 
For  't  was  the  auld  moon  turned  a  neuk> 

And  out  o'  sight, 
And  backlins-coinin',  to  the  leuk 

She  grew  mair  bright. 

This  was  denied  —  it  was  affirmed  ; 
The  herds  and  hirsels  were  alarmed  ; 
vol.  i.  8 


114  EPISTLE   TO  SIMPSON. 

The  reverend  gray-beards  raved  and  stormed, 

That  beardless  laddies 
Should  think  they  better  were  informed 

Than  their  auld  daddies. 

Frae  less  to  mair,  it  gaed  to  sticks  ; 
Frae  words  and  aiths  to  clours  and  nicks, 
And  mony  a  fallow  gat  his  licks, 

Wi'  hearty  crunt ; 
And  some,  to  learn  them  for  their  tricks, 

Were  hanged  and  brunt. 

This  game  was  played  in  monie  lands, 
And  Auld-Light  caddies  bure  sic  hands, 
That,  faith,  the  youngsters  took  the  sands 

Wi'  nimble  shanks, 
Till  lairds  forbade,  by  strict  commands, 

Sic  bluidy  pranks. 

But  New-Light  herds  gat  sic  a  cowe, 
Folk  thought  them  ruined  stick-and-stowe, 
Till  now  amaist  on  every  knowe 

Ye  '11  find  ane  placed  ; 
And  some  their  New-Light  fair  avow, 

Just  quite  barefaced. 

Nae  doubt  the  Auld-Light  flocks  are  bleatin'  ; 
Their  zealous  herds  are  vexed  and  sweatin' ; 
Mysel'  I  've  even  seen  them  greetin' 

Wi'  girnin'  spite, 
To  hear  the  moon  sae  sadly  lied  ou 

By  word  and  write. 


BOLT  WILLIE.  115 

But  shortly  they  will  cowe  the  loons  ! 
Some  Aultl-Light  herds  in  neebor  towns 
Are  mind't  in  things  they  ca'  balloons 

To  tak  a  flight, 
And  stay  ae  month  among  the  moons, 

And  see  them  right. 

Guid  observation  they  will  gie  them ; 

And  when  the  auld  moon 's  gaun  to  lea'e  them, 

The  hindmost  shaird,  they  '11  fetch  it  wi'  them. 

Just  i'  their  pouch, 
And  when  the  New-Light  billies  see  them, 

I  think  they  '11  crouch  ! 

Sae,  ye  observe  that  a'  this  clatter 

Is  naething  but  a  "  moonshine  matter ;  * 

But  though  dull  prose-folk  Latin  splatter 

Tn  logic  tulzie, 
I  hope  we  bardies  ken  some  better 

Than  mind  sic  brulzie. 


HOLY  WILLIE'S   PRAYER. 

f\R  Thou,  wha  in  the  heavens  dost  dwell, 

Wha,  as  it  pleases  best  thysel', 
Sends  ane  to  heaven,  and  ten  to  hell, 

A'  for  thy  glory, 
And  no  for  ony  guid  or  ill 

They  've  done  afore  thee  ! 


116  HOLY   WILLIE. 

I  bless  and  praise  thy  matchless  might, 
Whan  thousands  thou  hast  left  in  night, 
That  Lam  here  afore  thy  sight, 

For  gifts  and  grace, 
A  burnin'  and  a  shinin'  light 

To  a'  this  place. 

What  was  I,  or  my  generation, 
That  I  should  get  sic  exaltation, 
I  wha  deserve  sic  just  damnation 

For  broken  laws, 
Five  thousand  years  'fore  my  creation, 

Through  Adam's  cause. 

When  frae  my  mither's  womb  I  fell, 
Thou  might  hae  plunged  me  in  hell, 
To  gnash  my  gums,  to  weep  and  wail, 

In  burning  lake, 
Whare  d — d  devils  roar  and  yell, 

Chained  to  a  stake. 

Yet  I  am  here,  a  chosen  sample, 

To  shew  thy  grace  is  great  and  ample 

I  'm  here  a  pillar  in  thy  temple, 

Strong  as  a  rock, 
A  guide,  a  buckler,  an  example, 

To  a'  thy  flock. 

But  yet,  oh  L — !  confess  I  must, 
At  times  I  'in  fash'd  wi'  fleshly  lust ; 
And  sometimes  too  wi'  warldly  trust, 
Vile  self  gets  in  ; 


HOLY    WILLIE.  H" 

But  thou  remembers  we  are  dust,       * 
Defiled  in  sin. 


Maybe  thou  lets  this  fleshly  thorn, 

Beset  thy  servant  e'en  and  morn, 

Lest  he  owre  high  and  proud  should  turn, 

'Cause  he 's  sae  gifted  ; 
If  sae,  thy  hand  maun  e'en  be  borne, 

Until  thou  lift  it. 

L — ,  bless  thy  chosen  in  this  place, 
For  here  thou  hast  a  chosen  race  : 
But  G —  confound  their  stubborn  face, 

And  blast  their  name, 
Wha  bring  thy  elders  to  disgrace 

And  public  shame. 

L — ,  mind  Gawn  Hamilton's  deserts ; 

He  drinks,  and  swears,  and  plays  at  cartes, 

Yet  has  sae  monie  takin'  arts, 

Wi'  grit  and  sma', 
Frae  G — 's  ain  priests  the  people's  hearts 

He  steals  awa'. 

And  whan  we  chasten'd  him  therefor, 
Thou  kens  how  he  bred  sic  a  splore, 
As  set  the  warld  in  a  roar 

O'  laughin'  at  us  : 
Cui"se  thou  his  basket  and  his  store, 

Kail  and  potatoes. 

L — ,  hear  my  earnest  cry  and  prayer, 
Against  the  presbyt'ry  of  Ayr  ; 


118  EPITAPH    ON  HOLY   WILLIE. 

Thy  strong  right  hand,  L — ,  mak  it  bare 

Upo'  their  heads, 
L — ,  weigh  it  down,  and  dinna  spare, 

For  their  misdeeds. 

Oh  L — ,  my  G — ,  that  glib-tongued  Aiken, 
My  very  heart  and  saul  are  quakin', 
To  think  how  we  stood  groanin',  shakin', 

And  swat  wi'  dread, 
While  he  wi'  hingin'  lip  and  snakin', 

Held  up  his  head. 

L — ,  in  the  day  of  vengeance  try  him, 
L — ,  visit  them  wha  did  employ  him, 
And  pass  not  in  thy  mercy  by  'em, 

Nor  hear  their  prayer ; 
But  for  thy  people's  sake  destroy  'em, 

And  dinna  spare. 

But,  L — ,  remember  me  and  mine, 
Wi'  mercies  temp'ral  and  divine, 
That  I  for  gear  and  grace  may  shine, 

Excelled  by  nane, 
And  a'  the  glory  shall  be  thine, 

Amen,  Amen  ! 


H 


EPITAPH   ON   HOLY   WILLIE. 

ERE  Holy  Willie's  sair-wcrn  cla) 
Taks  up  its  last  abode  ; 


THIRD  EPISTLE    TO   LAPRAIK         11 A 

His  saul  has  ta'en  some  other  way, 
I  fear  the  left-hand  road. 

Stop  !  there  he  is,  as  sure  's  a  gun, 

Poor  silly  body,  see  him  ; 
Nae  wonder  he  's  as  black  's  the  grun*, 

Observe  wlia's  standing  wi'  him. 

Your  brunstane  devilship,  T  see, 

Has  got  him  there  before  ye  ; 
But  haud  your  nine-tail  cat  a  wee, 

Till  ance  you  've  heard  my  story. 

Your  pity  I  will  not  implore, 

For  pity  ye  hae  nane  ; 
Justice,  alas  !  has  gien  him  o'er, 

And  mercy's  day  is  gane. 

But  hear  me,  sir,  deil  as  ye  are, 
Look  something  to  your  credit ; 

A  coof  like  him  wad  stain  your  name, 
If  it  were  kent  ve  did  it. 


THIRD   EPISTLE   TO   J.   LAPRAIK. 

/"\UID  speed  and  furder  to  you,  Johnny, 

^    Guid  health,  hale  ban's,  and  weather  bonny 

Now  when  ye  're  nickan  down  fu'  canny 

The  staff  o'  bread, 
May  ye  ne'er  want  a  stoup  o'  bran'y 

To  clear  your  head 


1-20        THIRD   EPISTLE   TO  LAPRAIK. 

May  Boreas  never  thrash  your  rigs, 
Nor  kick  your  rickles  aff  their  legs, 
Sendin'  the  stuff  o'er  muirs  and  haggs 

Like  drivin'  wrack ; 
But  may  the  tapmast  grain  that  wags 

Come  to  the  sack. 

I  'm  bizzie  too,  and  skelpin'  at  it, 
But  bitter,  daudin'  showers  hae  wat  it, 
Sae  my  auld  stumpie  pen  I  gat  it 

Wi'  muckle  wark, 
And  took  my  jocteleg  and  whatt  it, 

Like  ony  dark. 

It 's  now  twa  month  that  I  'm  your  debtor, 
For  your  braw,  nameless,  dateless  letter, 
Abusin'  me  for  harsh  ill-nature 

On  holy  men, 
While  deil  a  hair  yoursel'  ye  're  better, 

But  mair  profane. 

But  let  the  kirk-folk  ring  their  bells, 
Let 's  sing  about  our  noble  sel's ; 
We  '11  iry  nae  jads  frae  heathen  hills 

To  help,  or  roose  us, 
But  browster-wives  and  whisky-stills, 

They  are  the  muses. 

Your  friendship,  sir,  I  winna  quat  it, 
And  if  ye  mak  objections  at  it, 
Then  lian'  in  nieve  some  day  we  '11  knot  it, 
And  witness  take, 


EPISTLE   TO  MR.   WMATH.  121 

An  d  when  wi'  usquebae  we  've  wat  it, 
It  winna  break. 

But  if  the  beast  and  branks  be  spared 
Till  kye  be  gaun  without  the  herd, 
And  a'  the  vittel  in  the  yard, 

And  theekit  right, 
I  mean  your  ingle-side  to  guard 

Ae  winter-night. 

Then  muse-inspirin'  aqua  vitas 

Shall  make  us  baith  sae  blithe  and  witty, 

Till  ye  forget  ye  're  auld  and  gutty, 

And  be  as  canty 
As  ye  were  nine  year  less  than  thretty  — 

Sweet  ane-and-twenty ! 

But  stooks  are  cowpit  wi'  the  blast, 
And  now  the  sinn  keeks  in  the  west, 
Then  I  maun  rin  amang  the  rest, 

And  quat  my  chanter ; 
Sae  I  subscribe  myself  in  haste 

Yours,  Rab  the  Ranter 


EPISTLE  TO   THE   REV.  JOHN  M'MATH. 

X^THILE  at  the  stook  the  shearers  cower 

To  shun  the  bitter  blaudin'  shower, 
Or  in  gulravage  rinnin'  scower 

To  pa^s  the  time, 
To  you  I  dedicate  the  hour 
In  idle  rhyme. 


122  EPISTLE   TO   MR.    \TMATH. 

My  Music,  tired  wi'  monie  a  sonnet 

On  gown,  and  ban',  and  douce  black  bonnet, 

Is  grown  right  eerie,  now  she  's  done  it, 

Lest  they  should  blame  her, 
And  rouse  their  holy  thunder  on  it, 

And  anathem  her. 

I  own  't  was  rash,  and  rather  hardy, 
That  I.  a  simple  country  bardie, 
Should  meddle  wi'  a  pack  sae  sturdy, 

Wha,  if  they  ken  me, 
Can  easy,  wi'  a  single  wordie, 

Lowse  h —  upon  me. 

But  I  gae  mad  at  their  grimaces, 
Their  sighin',  cantin',  grace-proud  faces, 
Their  three-mile  prayers,  and  hauf-mile  graces. 

Their  raxin'  conscience, 
Whase  greed,  revenge,  and  pride  disgraces 

Waur  nor  their  nonsense. 

There  's  Gawn,  misca't  waur  than  a  beast, 
Wha  has  mair  honour  in  his  breast 
Than  mony  scores  as  guid  's  the  priest 

Wha  sae  abus't  him  ; 
And  may  a  bard  no  crack  his  jest 

AVhat  way  they  've  use't  him  ? 

See  him,  the  poor  man's  friend  in  need, 
The  gentleman  in  word  and  deed, 
And  shall  his  fame  and  honour  bleed 
By  worthless  skellums, 


EPISTLE   TO  MR.    \T\IATII.  123 

And  not  a  Muse  erect  her  head 
To  covvc  the  blellums  ? 

0  Pope,  had  I  thy  satire's  darts, 
To  gie  the  rascals  their  deserts, 

1  'd  rip  their  rotten,  hollow  hearts, 

And  tell  aloud 
Their  jugglin'  hocus-pocus  arts 
To  cheat  the  crowd. 

G —  knows  I  'in  no  the  thing  I  should  be, 
Nor  am  I  even  the  thing  I  could  be, 
But  twenty  times  I  rather  would  be 

An  atheist  clean, 
Than  under  gospel  colours  hid  be, 

Just  for  a  screen. 

An  honest  man  may  like  a  glass, 
An  honest  man  may  like  a  lass ; 
But  mean  revenge,  and  malice  fause, 

He  '11  still  disdain, 
And  then  cry  zeal  for  gospel  laws, 

Like  some  we  ken. 

They  take  religion  in  their  mouth  ; 
They  talk  o'  mercy,  erace,  and  truth, 
For  what  ?  to  gie  their  malice  skouth 

On  some  puir  wight, 
And  hunt  him  down,  o'er  right  and  ruth, 

To  ruin  straight. 

All  hail,  Religion  !  maid  divine ! 
Pardon  a  Muse  sae  mean  as  mine, 


124  EPISTLE   TO  MR.  WMATR. 

Who  in  her  rough  imperfect  line, 

Thus  daurs  to  name  thee  ; 

To  stigmatise  false  friends  of  thine 
Can  ne'er  defame  thee 

Though  blotch't  and  foul  wi'  mony  a  stain, 

And  far  unworthy  of  thy  train, 

With  trembling  voice  I  tune  my  strain 

To  join  with  those 
Who  boldly  daur  thy  cause  maintain 

In  spite  o'  foes : 

In  spite  o'  crowds,  in  spite  o'  mobs, 
In  spite  o'  undermining  jobs, 
In  spite  o'  dark  banditti  stabs 

At  worth  and  merit, 
By  scoundrels,  even  wi'  holy  robes, 

But  hellish  spirit. 

O  Ayr !  my  dear,  my  native  ground, 
Within  thy  prcsbyterial  bound 
A  candid  liberal  band  is  found 

Of  public  teachers, 
As  men,  as  Christians  too,  renowned, 

And  manly  preachers. 

Sir,  in  that  circle  you  are  named  ; 
Sir,  in  that  circle  you  are  famed  ; 
And  some,  by  whom  your  doctrine  's  blamed 

(Which  gies  you  honour), 
Even,  sir,  by  them  your  heart 's  esteemed, 

And  winning  manner. 


VERSES    TO  A   MOUSE.  12o 

Pardon  this  freedom  I  have  ta'en, 
And  if  impertinent  I  've  been, 
Impute  it  not,  good  sir,  in  ane 

Whase  heart  ne'er  wranged  ye, 
But  to  liis  utmost  would  befriend 

Ought  that  belanged  ye. 


TO  A  MOUSE, 

ON   TURNING   UP   HER  NEST  WITH   THE   PLOUGH 
NOVEMBER,    1785. 

A\7"KE,  sleekit,  cow  Yin',  tim'rous  beastie, 

Oh  what  a  panic  's  in  thy  breastie  ! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa*  sae  hasty, 

Wi'  bickering  brattle  ! 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  and  chase  thee, 

Wi'  murd'ring  pattle  ! 

I  'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  Nature's  social  union, 
And  justifies  that  ill  opinion, 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor  earthborn  companion, 

And  fellow-mortal  ! 

I  doubt  na,  whyles,  but  thou  may  thieve 
What  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live 
A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave 

'S  a  sma'  request : 
1 11  get  a  blessin'  wi'  the  laive, 

Anil  never  miss  't ! 


126  VERSES   TO  A  MOUSE. 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin  ! 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin' ! 
And  naething  now  to  big  a  new  ane 

O'  foggage  green, 
And  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin', 

Baith  snel  and  keen  ! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste, 
And  weary  winter  comin'  fast, 
And  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 
Till,  crash  !  the  cruel  coulter  passed 

Out  through  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  and  stibble, 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble  ! 
Now  thou  's  turned  out  for  a'  thy  trouble. 

But  house  or  hald, 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble, 

And  cranreuch  cauld ! 

But,  Mousie.  thou  art  no  thy  lane, 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain  • 
The  best-laid  schemes  o'  mice  and  men, 

Gang  aft  a-gley, 
And  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  and  pain 

For  promised  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compared  wi'  me  I 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee  : 
But,  och  !  I  backward  cast  my  e'e, 

On  prospects  drear  ! 
And  forward,  though  [  canna  see, 

I  guess  and  fear. 


HALLOWEEN.  127 


HALLOWEEN. 


"  Yes  !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  prond  disdain, 
The  simple  pleasures  of  the  lowly  train  ; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art." 

Goldsmith. 

TTPON  that  night,  when  fairies  light 


u 


On  Cassilis  Downans  dance, 


Or  owre  the  lays,  in  splendid  blaze, 
On  sprightly  courser?  prance  ; 

Or  for  Colean  the  route  is  ta'en, 
Beneath  the  moon's  pale  beams, 

There,  up  the  Cove  to  stray  and  rove, 
Amang  the  rocks  and  streams 
To  sport  that  night, 

Amang  the  bonnie,  winding  banks, 

Where  Doon  rins,  wimplin',  clear, 
Where  Bruce  ance  ruled  the  martial  ranks, 

And  shook  his  Carrick  spear, 
Some  merry,  friendly,  country-folks 

Together  did  convene, 
To  burn  their  nits,  and  pou  their  stocks, 

And  haud  their  Halloween 

Fu'  blithe  that  night. 

The  lasses  feat,  and  cleanly  neat, 
Mair  braw  than  when  they  're  fine ; 

Their  faces  blithe,  fu'  sweetly  kythe, 
Hearts  leal,  and  warm,  and  kin' : 

The  lads  sae  trig,  wi'  wooer-babs 
Weel  knotted  on  their  garten, 


128  HALLOWEEN. 

Some  unco  blate,  and  some  wi'  gabs 
Gar  lasses'  hearts  gang  startin' 
"Whiles  fast  at  night, 

Then,  first  and  foremost,  through  the  kail, 

Their  stocks  maun  a'  be  sought  ance ; 
They  steek  their  een,  and  graip,  and  wale. 

For  muckle  anes  and  straught  anes. 
Poor  hav'rel  Will  fell  aff  the  drift, 

And  wandered  through  the  bow-kail ; 
And  pou't,  for  want  o'  better  shift, 

A  runt  was  like  a  sow-tail, 

Sae  bow't  that  night. 

Then,  straught  or  crooked,  yird  or  nane, 

They  roar  and  cry  a'  throu'ther ; 
The  very  wee  tilings,  todlin',  rin 

Wi'  stocks  out-owre  their  shouther : 
And  gif  the  custoc  's  sweet  or  sour, 

Wi'  joctelegs  they  taste  them  ; 
Syne  cozily  aboon  the  door, 

Wi'  cannie  care,  they  've  placed  them 
To  lie  that  night. 

The  lasses  staw  frae  'mang  them  a' 

To  pou  their  stalks  o'  corn  ; 
But  Rab  slips  out,  and  jinks  about, 

Behint  the  muckle  thorn : 
He  grippet  Nelly  hard  and  fast ; 

Loud  skirled  a'  the  lasses  ; 
But  her  tap-pickle  maist  was  lost, 

When  kuittlin'  in  the  fause-house 
Wi'  him  that  night. 


HALLOWEEN.  129 

The  auld  guldwife's  weel-hoordit  nits 

Are  round  and  round  divided  ; 
And  mony  la<ls'  and  lasses'  fates 

Are  there  that  night  decided : 
Some  kindle  couthie,  side  by  side, 

Awl  burn  thegither  trimly  ; 
Some  start  awa'  wi'  saucy  pride. 

And  jump  out-owre  the  chimlie 
Fu'  high  that  night. 

Jean  slips  in  twa  wi'  tentie  e'e ; 

Wha  't  was,  she  wadna  tell ; 
But  this  is  Jock,  and  this  is  me, 

She  says  in  to  herseF : 
He  bleezed  owre  her,  and  she  owre  him, 

As  they  wad  never  mair  part ; 
Till,  fuff!  he  started  up  the  lum, 

And  Jean  had  e'en  a  sair  heart 
To  see 't  that  night. 

Poor  Willie,  wi'  his  bow-kail  runt, 

Was  brunt  wi'  primsie  Mallie ; 
And  Mary,  nae  doubt,  took  the  drunt, 

To  be  compared  to  Willie. 
Mall's  nit  lap  out  wi'  pridefu'  fling, 

And  her  ain  fit  it  brunt  it ; 
While  Willie  lap,  and  swore,  by  jing, 

'T  was  just  the  way  he  wanted 
To  be  that  night 

Nell  had  the  fause-house  in  her  min', 

She  pits  hersel'  and  Rob  in  ; 
In  loving  bleeze  they  sweetly  join, 

vol.  i.  9 


130  HALLOWEEN. 

Till  white  in  ase  they  're  sobbiii'. 
Nell's  heart  was  dancin  at  the  view, 

She  whispered  Rob  to  leuk  for 't : 
Rob  stowlins  prie'd  her  bonny  mou' 

Fu'  cozie  in  the  neuk  for  't, 
Unseen  that  night. 

But  Merran  sat  behint  their  backs, 

Her  thoughts  on  Andrew  Bell ; 
She  lea'es  them  gashin'  at  their  cracks, 

And  slips  out  by  hersel' : 
She  through  the  yard  the  nearest  taks, 

And  to  the  kiln  she  goes  then, 
And  darklins  graipit  for  the  bauks, 

And  in  the  blue-clue  throws  then, 
Right  fear't  that  night. 

And  aye  she  win't,  and  aye  she  swat, 

I  wat  she  made  nae  jaukin' ; 
Till  something  held  within  the  pat, 

Guid  L —  !  but  she  was  quakin'  1 
But  whether  't  was  the  deil  himsel', 

Or  whether  't  was  a  bauk-en', 
Or  whether  it  was  Andrew  Bell, 

She  did  na  wait  on  .talkin' 

To  spier  that  night. 

Wee  Jenny  to  her  granny  says  : 
"  Will  ye  go  wi'  me,  granny  ? 

I  '11  eat  the  apple  at  the  glass 
I  gat  frae  Uncle  Johnny : " 

She  fuff't  her  pipe  wi'  sic  a  hint, 
In  wrath  she  was  sae  vap'rin' 


HALLOWEEN  131 

She  notic't  na,  an  aizle  brunt 
Her  braw  new  worset  apron 

Out  tlirough  that  night. 

u  Ye  little  skelpie-limmer's  face  ! 

T  dairr  you  try  sic  sportin', 
As  seek  the  foul  thief  ony  place, 

For  him  to  spae  your  fortune  : 
Nae  doubt  but  ye  may  get  a  sight ! 

Great  cause  ye  hae  to  fear  it ; 
For  mony  a  ane  has  gotten  a  fright 

And  lived  and  died  deleeret 
On  sic  a  night. 

"Ae  hairst  afore  the  Sherra-moor  — 

I  mind 't  as  weel  's  yestreen, 
I  was  a  gilpey  then,  I  'm  sure 

I  was  na  past  fifteen  : 
The  simmer  had  been  cauld  and  wat, 

And  stuff  was  unco  green  ; 
And  aye  a  rantin'  kirn  we  gat, 

And  just  on  Halloween 

It  fell  that  night. 

"  Our  stibble-rig  was  Rab  M'Graen, 

A  clever,  sturdy  fallow  : 
His  sin  gat  Eppie  Sim  wi'  wean, 

That  lived  in  Achmacalla  : 
He  gat  hemp-seed,  I  mind  it  weel, 

And  he  made  unco  light  o'  't ; 
But  mony  a  day  was  by  himsel', 

He  was  sae  sairly  frighted 
That  very  night" 


132  HALLOWEEN. 

Then  up  gat  fechtin'  Jamie  Fleck, 

And  he  swore  by  his  conscience, 
That  he  could  saw  hemp-seed  a  peck ; 

For  it  was  a'  but  nonsense. 
The  auld  guidman  raught  down  the  pock, 

And  out  a  handfu'  gied  him  ; 
Syne  bad  him  slip  frae  'mang  the  folk, 

Some  time  when  nae  ane  see'd  him, 
And  try  't  that  night. 

He  marches  through  amang  the  stacks, 

Though  he  was  something  sturtin ; 
The  graip  he  for  a  harrow  taks, 
And  haurls  at  his  curpin  ; 
*     And  every  now  and  then  he  says  : 
"  Hemp-seed,  I  saw  thee, 
And  her  that  is  to  be  my  lass, 
Come  after  me,  and  draw  thee 
As  fast  this  night." 

He  whistled  up  Lord  Lennox'  march, 

To  keep  his  courage  cheery  ; 
Although  his  hair  began  to  arch, 

He  was  sae  fley'd  and  eerie  : 
Till  presently  he  hears  a  squeak, 

And  then  a  grane  and  gruntle  ; 
He  by  his  shouther  ga'e  a  keek, 

And  tumbled  wi'  a  wintle 

Out-owre  that  night. 

He  roared  a  horrid  murder-shout, 

In  dreadfu'  desperation  ! 
And  young  and  auld  cam  rinnin'  out, 


HALLOWEEN.  1D3 

And  hear  the  sad  narration  : 
He  swore  't  was  hilchin  Jean  M'Craw, 

Or  crouchie  Merran  Humphie, 
Till,  stop  —  she  trotted  through  them  a'  — 

And  wha  was  it  but  Grumphie 
Asteer  that  night ! 

Meg  fain  wad  to  the  barn  hae  gaen, 

To  win  three  wechts  o'  naething ; 
But  for  to  meet  the  deil  her  lane, 

She  pat  but  little  faith  in  : 
She  gies  the  herd  a  pickle  nits, 

And  twa  red-cheekit  apples, 
To  watch,  while  for  the  barn  she  sets, 

In  hopes  to  see  Tarn  Kipples 
That  very  night. 

She  turns  the  key  wi'  canny  thraw, 

And  owre  the  threshold  ventures  ; 
But  first  on  Sawny  gies  a  ca', 

Syne  bauldly  in  she  enters  : 
A  ratton  rattled  up  the  wa', 

And  she  cried,  "  L — ,  preserve  her  ! " 
And  ran  through  midden-hole  and  a', 

And  prayed  wi'  zeal  and  fervour, 
Fu'  fast  that  night. 

They  hoy't  out  Will,  wi'  sair  advice  ; 

They  hecht  him  some  fine  braw  ane  ; 
It  chanced,  the  stack  he  faddom't  thrice, 

Was  timmer-propt  for  thrawin' ; 
He  taks  a  swirly  auld  moss  oak 

For  some  black,  grousome  carlin  ; 


134  HALLOWEEN. 

And  loot  a  winze,  and  drew  a  stroke, 
Till  skin  in  blypes  cam  haurlin' 

Aff's  nieves  that  night. 

A  wanton  widow  Leezie  was, 

As  canty  as  a  kittlin  ; 
But,  och  !  that  night,  amang  the  shaws, 

She  got  a  fearfu'  settlin'  ! 
She  through  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 

And  owre  the  hill  gaed  scrieven, 
Where  three  lairds'  lands  meet  at  a  burn, 

To  dip  her  left  sark-sleeve  in, 
Was  bent  that  night. 

Whyles  owre  a  linn  the  burnie  plays, 

As  through  the  glen  it  wimpl't ; 
Whyles  round  a  rocky  scaur  it  strays ; 

Whyles  in  a  wiel  it  dimpl't ; 
Whyles  glittered  to  the  nightly  rays, 

Wi'  bickering,  dancing  dazzle  ; 
Whyles  cookit  underneath  the  braes, 

Below  the  spreading  hazel, 
Unseen  that  night. 

Amang  the  brackens,  on  the  brae, 

Between  her  and  the  moon, 
The  d.3il,  or  else  an  outler  quey, 

Gat  up  and  gae  a  croon : 
Poor  Leeziu's  heart  maist  lap  the  hool 

Near  lav 'rock-height  she  jumpit, 
But  mist  a  fit,  and  in  the  pool 

Out-owre  the  lugs  she  plumpit, 

Wi'  a  plunge  that  night. 


SECOND    rA'l&TLE   TO   DAVIE.         13.") 

In  order,  on  the  clean  hearth-stane, 

The  luggies  three  are  ranged 
And  every  time  great  care  is  ta'en 

To  see  them  duly  changed  : 
Auld  Uncle  John,  wha  wedlock's  joys 

Sin'  Mar's  year  did  desire, 
Because  he  gat  the  toom  dish  thrice 

He  heaved  them  on  the  fire 

In  wrath  that  night. 

Wi'  merry  sangs,  and  friendly  cracks, 

I  wat  they  did  na  weary  ; 
And  unco  tales,  and  funny  jokes, 

Their  sports  were  cheap  and  cheery  ; 
Till  buttered  so'ns,  wi'  fragrant  lunt, 

Set  a'  their  gabs  a-steerin' ; 
Syne,  wi'  a  social  glass  o'  strunt, 

They  parted  aff  careerin' 

Fu'  blithe  that  night 


SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE, 

a  brother  poet. 

Auld  Neibor, 

'M  three  times  doubly  o'er  your  debtor, 
For  your  auld-farrant,  frien'ly  letter  ; 
Though  T  maun  say  't,  I  doubt  ye  natter, 

Ye  speak  sae  fair  : 
For  my  puir.  silly,  rhymin'  clatter 
Some  less  maun  sair. 


I 


136  SECOND  EPISTLE   TO  DAVIE. 

Hale  be  your  heart,  hale  be  your  fiddle ; 
Lang  may  your  elbock  jink  and  diddle, 
To  cheer  you  through  the  weary  widdle 

O'  war'ly  cares, 
Till  bairns'  bairns  kindly  cuddle 

Your  auld  gray  hairs. 

But,  Davie  lad,  I  'm  red  ye  're  glaikit ; 
I  'm  tauld  the  Muse  ye  hae  negleckit ; 
And  gif  it 's  sae,  ye  sud  be  licket, 

Until  ye  fyke ; 
Sic  hauns  as  you  sud  ne'er  be  faiket, 

Be  hain't  wha  like. 

For  me,  I  'm  on  Parnassus'  brink, 

Bivin'  the  words  to  gar  them  clink  ; 

Whyles  daez't  wi'  love,  whyles  daez't  wi*  drink, 

Wi'  jads  or  masons  ; 
And  whyles,  but  aye  owre  late,  I  think, 

Braw  sober  lessons. 

Of  a'  the  thoughtless  sons  o'  man, 
Commen'  me  to  the  bardie  clan  ; 
Except  it  be  some  idle  plan 

O'  rhymin'  clink, 
The  devil-hae  't  (that  I  sud  ban  !) 

They  ever  think. 

Nae  thought,  nae  view,  nae  scheme  o'  livin' 
Nae  cares  to  gie  us  joy  or  grievin' ; 
But  just  the  pouchie  put  the  nieve  in, 

And  while  ought 's  there, 


THE  BJiAES  0'  BALLOCHMYLE.       137 

Then  hiltie  skiltie,  we  gae  scrievin', 
And  fash  nae  mair. 

Leeze  me  on  rhyme  !  it 's  aye  a  treasure, 
My  chief,  amaist  my  only  pleasure, 
At  hame,  a-fiel',  at  wark,  or  leisure  ; 

The  Muse,  poor  hizzie  ! 
Though  rough  and  raploch  be  her  measure, 

She  's  seldom  lazy. 

Haud  to  the  Muse,  my  dainty  Davie  : 
The  waiT  may  play  you  monie  a  shavie ; 
But  for  the  Muse,  she  '11  never  leave  ye, 

Though  e'er  sae  puir, 
Na,  even  though  limpin'  wi'  the  spavie 

Frae  door  to  door. 


THE  BRAES   0'   BALLOCHMYLE. 

r  I  ^HE  Catrine  woods  were  yellow  seen, 
The  flowers  decayed  on  Catrine  lea, 
Nae  lav'rock  sang  on  hillock  green, 

But  Nature  sickened  on  the  ee. 
Through  faded  groves  Maria  sang, 

Hersel'  in  beauty's  bloom  the  while, 
And  aye  the  wild-wood  echoes  rang, 

Fareweel  the  Braes  o'  Ballochmyle  I 

Low  in  your  wintry  beds,  ye  flowers, 
Again  ye  '11  flourish  fresh  and  fair ; 


138        MAN    WAS   MADE   TO   MOURN. 

Ye  birdies  dumb,  in  with'ring  bowers, 
Again  ye  '11  charm  the  vocal  air. 

But  here,  alas  !  for  me  nae  mair 

Shall  birdie  charm,  or  flow'ret  smile ; 

Fareweel  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr, 

Fareweel,  fareweel !  sweet  Ballochmyle 


MAN  WAS  MADE  TO  MOURN. 


TX^HEN  chill  November's  surly  blast 

Made  fields  and  forests  bare, 
One  evening,  as  I  wandered  forth 

Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 
I  spied  a  man  whose  aged  step 

Seemed  weary,  worn  with  care  ; 
His  face  was  furrowed  o'er  with  years, 

And  hoary  was  his  hair. 

u  Young  stranger,  whither  wanderest  thou  ? 

Began  the  reverend  sage  : 
"  Does  thirst  of  wealth  thy  step  constrain, 

Or  youthful  pleasures  rage  ! 
Or  haply,  prest  with  cares  and  woes, 

Too  soon  thou  hast  began 
To  wander  forth,  with  me,  to  mourn 

The  miseries  of  man. 

"  The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors, 
Outspreading  far  and  wide, 


MAN    WAS   MADE   TO   MO  CBN.        139 

Where  hundreds  labour  to  support 

A  haughty  lordling's  pride  : 
I  've  seen  you  weary  winter-sun 

Twice  forty  times  retiun, 
And  every  time  has  added  proofs 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

"  Oh,  man  !  while  in  thy  early  years, 

How  prodigal  of  time  ; 
Misspending  all  thy  precious  hours, 

Thy  glorious  youthful  prime  ! 
Alternate  follies  take  the  sway  ; 

Licentious  passions  burn  ; 
Which  tenfold  force  gives  Nature's  law, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

"  Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prime, 

Or  manhood's  active  might ; 
Man  then  is  useful  to  his  kind, 

Supported  is  his  right  : 
But  see  him  on  the  edge  of  life, 

With  cares  and  sorrows  worn  ; 
Then  Age  and  Want — oh  ill-matched  pair  !— 

Shew  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

"  A  few  seem  favourites  of  fate, 

In  Pleasure's  lap  carest ; 
Yet  think  not  all  the  rich  and  great 

Are  likewise  truly  blest. 
But,  oh  !  what  crowds  in  every  land, 

All  wretched  and  forlorn  ! 
Through  weary  life  this  lesson  learn  — 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 


140         MAN    WAS   MADE   TO   MOURN. 

"Many  and  sharp  the  numerous  ills 

Inwoven  with  our  frame  ! 
More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves 

Regret,  remorse,  and  shame  ; 
And  man,  —  whose  heaven-erected  face 

The  smiles  of  love  adorn,  — 
Man's  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn  ! 

"  See  yonder  poor,  o'erlaboured  wight, 

So  abject,  mean,  and  vile, 
Who  begs  a  brother  of  the  earth 

To  give  him  leave  to  toil ; 
And  see  his  lordly  fellow-worm 

The  poor  petition  spurn, 
Unmindful,  though  a  weeping  wife 

And  helpless  offspring  mourn. 

"If  I  'm  designed  yon  lordling's  slave  — 

By  Nature's  law  designed  — 
Why  was  an  independent  wish 

E'er  planted  in  my  mind  ? 
If  not,  why  am  I  subject  to 

His  cruelty  or  scorn  ? 
Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  power 

To  make  his  fellow  mourn  ? 

"  Yet  let  not  this  too  much,  my  son, 
Disturb  thy  youthful  breast ; 

This  partial  view  of  human-kind 
Is  surely  not  the  last ! 

The  poor,  oppressed,  honest  man, 
Had  never,  sure,  been  born, 


THE  COTTERS  SATURDAY  NIGHT.     141 

Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 
To  comfort  those  that  mourn  ! 

"  Oh,  Death  !  the  poor  man's  dearest  friend— 

The  kindest  and  the  best  ! 
Welcome  the  hour,  my  aged  limbs 

Are  laid  with  thee  at  rest ! 
The  great,  the  wealthy,  fear  thy  blow, 

From  pomp  and  pleasure  torn  ! 
But,  oh  !  a  blest  relief  to  those 

That  weary-laden  mourn  !  " 


THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED    TO   KOBEKT   AIKEN,  ESQ. 

"  Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys  and  destiny  obscure ; 
Nor  grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  aud  simple  annals  of  the  poor."  —  Grat. 

"]\/TY   loved,    my    honoured,    much-respected 
1U-  friend ! 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays ; 
With  honest  pride,  I  scorn  each  selfish  end  ; 
My    dearest    meed,  a  friend's    esteem    and 

praise. 
To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays, 
The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequestered  scene  ; 

The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways 
What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been  ; 
Ah  !  though  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there, 
I  ween  ! 


142       THE  COTTERS  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh  ; 

The  short'ning  -winter-day  is  near  a  close ; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh, 
The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their  re- 
pose : 
The  toil-worn  cotter  frae  his  labour  goes, — 
This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end,  — 
Collects    his    spades,   his  mattocks,  and  his 
hoes, 
Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hame- 
ward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ; 
Th'    expectant    wee    things,    toddlin',    stacher 
through 
To  meet  their  dad,  wi'  nichterin'  noise  and 

glee.  _ 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinking  bonnily, 
His  clean  hearthstane,  his  thriftie  wine's  smile, 

The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 
Does  a'  his  weary  kiaugh  and  care  beguile, 
And  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  and  his  toiL 

Belyve,  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in, 
At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun' : 

Some  ca'  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  rin 
A  cannie  errand  to  a  neibor  town  : 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown, 

In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e'e, 
Comes  hame,  perhaps  to  shew  a  braw  new 
gown, 


THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT     14" 

Or  deposit  her  sair-won  penny-fee, 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

With  joy  unfeigned,  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 

And  each  for  other's  weelfare  kindly  spiers  : 
The  social  hours,  swift-winged,  unnoticed  fleet 

Each  tells  the  unco.:  that  he  sees  or  hears ; 

The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years 
Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 

The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  and  her  shears, 
Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel  's  the  new  — 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 

Their  master's  and  their  mistress's  command, 

The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey ; 
And  mind  their  labours  wi'  an  eydent  hand, 
And  ne'er,  though  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or 

play : 
"  And  oh  !  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway ! 
And  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  and  night ! 

Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray, 
Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might : 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord 
aright  !  " 

But,  hark  !  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door ; 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neibor  lad  cam  o'er  the  moor, 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 

The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek ; 

With  heart-struck   anxious  care  inquires  his 
name, 


144     THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak ; 
Weel   pleased    the    mother  hears  it  's   nae  wild, 
worthless  rake. 

Wi'  kindly  welcome,  Jenny  brings  him  ben ; 

A  strappin'  youth  ;  he  taks  the  mother's  eye  ; 
Blithe  Jenny  sees  the  visit 's  no  ill-ta'en  ; 

The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye. 

The  youngster's    artless    heart    o'erflows  wi' 

But  blate  and  lathefu',  scarce  can  weel  behave ; 

The  mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 
What   makes    the    youth    sae  bashfu'  and  sae 
grave  : 
Weel  pleased  to  think  her  bairn  's  respected  like 
the  lave. 

Oh  happy  love !  —  where  love  like  this  is  found  ! 
Oh  heartfelt  raptures  !  —  bliss  beyond  com- 
pare ! 
I  've  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round, 
And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare  :  — 
If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure 
spare, 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 

'T  is  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair 
In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 
Beneath    the    milk-white    thorn    that    scents    the 
evening  gale. 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart, 

A  wretch,  a  villain,  lost  to  love  and  truth, 
That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art, 


THE  COTTER- S  SATURDAY  NIGHT.    145 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth  ? 
Curse    on     his     perjur'd    arts !     dissembling 
smooth  ! 
Are  honour,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exiled  ? 

Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 
Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their  child  ? 
Then  paints  the  ruined  maid,  and  their  distraction 
wild? 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board, — 
The  halesome  parritch,  chief  of  Scotia's  food ; 
The  soupe  their  only  hawkie  does  afford, 

That  'yont  the  hallan  snugly  chows  her  cood  : 
The  dame  brings  forth,  in  complimental  mood, 
To  grace    the    lad,   her    weel-hain'd    kebbuck, 
fell, 
And  aft  he 's  prest,  and  aft  he  ca's  it  guid ; 
The  frugal  wine,  garrulous,  will  tell, 
How  't  was  a  towmond  auld,  sin'  lint  was  i'   the 
bell. 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face, 

They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide ; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  with  patriarchal  grace, 
The  big  ha'  Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride ; 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside, 
His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  and  bare ; 

Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zicn 
glide, 
He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care; 
And  "  Let  us  worship  God  !  "  he  says,  with  solemn 
air. 

vol.  l  10 


146     THE  COTTERS  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise ; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim 
Perhaps  Dundee's  wild-warbling  measures  rise, 

Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  of  the  name, 

Or  noble  Elgin  oeets  the  heavenward  flame, 
The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays  : 

Compared  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame 
The  tickled  ear  no  heartfelt  raptures  raise  ; 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page  — 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high 
Or,  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 

With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny  ; 

Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 
Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire  ; 

Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry; 
Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire  ; 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme  — 
How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed : 

How  He,  who  bore  in  heaven  the  second  name, 
Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  his  head  : 
How  his  first  followers  and  servants  sped  : 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land : 
How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 

Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand, 
And  heard  great  Bab'lon's  doom  pronounced  by 
Heaven's  command. 

Then  kneeling  down  to  Heaven's  Eternal 
King, 


THE  COTTERS  SATURDAY  NIGHT.     147 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays  • 
Hope  "  springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing,** 
That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days : 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 
No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 

Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear ; 
While  circling  Time  moves  round  in  an  eternal 
sphere. 

Compared  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide, 

Devotion's  every  grace,  except  the  heart ! 

The  Power,  incensed,  the  pageant  will  desert, 
The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole ; 

But,  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 
May  hear,  well  pleased,  the   language  of  the 
soul ; 
And  in  His  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enrol. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  several  way ; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest : 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  request, 
That   He,  who  stills  the  raven's   clamorous 
nest, 
And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flowery  pride, 

Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best, 
For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide  ; 
But,  chiefly,   in   their    hearts    with    grace    divine 
preside. 


148    TEE   COTTERS  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

From  scenes  like  these  old   Scotia's  grandeur 
springs, 
That    makes    her    loved    at    home,    revered 
abroad : 
Princes  and  lords  i^.re  but  the  breath  of  kings, 
"  An  honest  man  's  the  noblest  work  of  God  ; " 
And  certes,  in  fair  Virtue's  heavenly  road, 
The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind  : 

What  is  a  lordling's   pomp  ?  —  a  cumbrous 
load, 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refined  ! 

Oh  Scotia  !  my  dear,  my  native  soil  I 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is 
sent, 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet 

content ! 
And    oh  !    may   Heaven    their  simple  lives 
prevent 
From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile  ! 

Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much-loved 
isle. 

Oh  Thou  !  who  poured  the  patriotic  tide, 

That  streamed  through  Wallace's  undaunted 

heart, 

W  o  dared  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 

")r  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 

The  na.triol's  <Jod    «eculiarly  thou  art, 


ADDRESS    TO    THE  DEIL.  149 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward  !) 

Oh  never,  never,  Scotia's  realm  desert ; 
But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot  bard, 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard 


ADDRESS   TO   THE  DEIL. 

"  Oh  prince,  oil  chief  of  many  throned  powers, 
That  led  th'  embattled  seraphim  to  war ! "  —  MaiON. 

/^\II  thou  !  whatever  title  suit  thee, 

Auld  Hornie,  Satan,  Nick,  or  Clootie, 
Wha  in  yon  cavern  grim  and  sootie, 

Closed  under  hatches, 
Spairges  about  the  brunstane  cootie, 

To  scaud  poor  wretches  1 

Hear  me,  auld  Hangie,  for  a  wee, 
And  let  poor  d — d  bodies  be  ; 
I  'm  sure  sma'  pleasure  it  can  gie, 

E'en  to  a  deil, 
To  skelp  and  scaud  poor  dogs  like  me, 

And  hear  us  squeel ! 

Great  is  thy  power,  and  great  thy  fame  ; 
Far  kenned  and  noted  is  thy  name  ; 
And  though  yon  lowin'  heugh  's  thy  hame, 

Thou  travels  far  ; 
And,  faith  !  thou  's  neither  lag  nor  lame, 

Nor  blate  nor  scaur. 

Whyles,  ranging  like  a  roaring  lion, 
For  prey  a'  holes  and  corners  tryin' ; 


150  ADDRESS   TO    THE  DEIL. 

Whyles  on  the  strong-winged  tempest  flyin' 

Tirlin'  the  kirks ; 
Whyles  in  the  human  bosom  pryin', 

Unseen  thou  lurks. 

I  've  heard  my  reverend  grannie  say, 
In  lanely  glens  ye  like  to  stray ; 
Or  where  auld  ruined  castles  gray 

Nod  to  the  moon, 
Ye  fright  the  nightly  wanderer's  way 

Wi'  eldritch  ctooh. 

When  twilight  did  my  grannie  summon, 
To  say  her  prayers,  douce  honest  woman  ! 
Ail  yon*  the  dike  she  's  heard  you  bummin , 

Wi'  eerie  drone  ; 
Or,  rustlin',  through  the  boortrees  comin', 

Wi'  heavy  groan. 

Ae  dreary,  windy,  winter-night, 

The  stars  shot  down  wi'  sklentin'  light, 

Wi'  you,  inysel',  I  gat  a  fright 

Ayont  the  lough ; 
Ye,  like  a  rash-bush,  stood  in  sight, 

Wi'  waving  sough. 

The  cudgel  in  my  nieve  did  shake, 
Each  bristled  hair  stood  like  a  stake, 
When  wi'  an  eldritch,  stoor  quaick —  quaick 

Amang  the  springs, 
Awa'  ye  squattered,  like  a  drake, 

On  whistling  wings. 


ADDRESS   TO   THE  DE1L.  1M 

Let  warlocks  grim,  and  withered  hags, 
Tell  how  wi'  you,  on  ragweed  nags, 
They  skim  the  muirs  and  dizzy  crags, 

Wi'  wicked  speed ; 
And  in  kirk-yards  renew  their  leagues 

Owre  howkit  dead. 

Thence  countra  wives,  wi'  toil  and  pain, 
May  plunge  and  plunge  the  kirn  in  vain  ; 
For,  oh  !  the  yellow  treasure  's  ta'en 

By  witching  skill ; 
And  dawtit,  twal-pint  Hawkie  's  gaen 

As  yell 's  the  bill.  , 

Thence  mystic  knots  mak  great  abuse, 

On  young  guidmen,  fond,  keen,  and  crouse, 

When  the  best  wark-lume  i'  the  house, 

By  cantrip  wit, 
Is  instant  made  no  worth  a  louse, 

Just  at  the  bit. 

When  thowes  dissolve  the  snawy  hoord, 
And  float  the  jinglin'  icy  boord, 
Then  water-kelpies  haunt  the  foord, 

By  your  direction  ; 
And  'nighted  travellers  are  allured 

To  their  destruction. 

And  aft  your  moss-traversing  spunkies 
Decoy  the  wight  that  late  and  drunk  is  : 
The  bleezin',  curst,  mischievous  monkeys 
Delude  his  eyes, 


152  ADDRKoH    TO    THE  DEI±. 

Till  in  some  miry  slough  he  sunk  is, 
Ne'er  mair  to  rise. 

When  mason's  mystic  word  and  grip, 
In  storms  and  tempests  raise  you  up, 
Some  cock  or  cat  your  rage  maun  stop 

Or,  strange  to  tell ! 
The  youngest  brother  ye  wad  whip 

Aff  straught  to  h —  I 

Lang  syne,  in  Eden's  bonny  yard, 
When  youthfu'  lovers  first  were  paired, 
And  all  the  soul  of  love  they  shared, 

The  raptured  hour, 
Sweet  on  the  fragrant  flowery  swaird, 

In  shady  bower,1  — 

Then  you,  ye  auld  sneck-drawing  dog ! 

Ye  came  to  Paradise  incog. 

And  played  on  man  a  cursed  brogue, 

(Black  be  your  fa' !) 
And  gied  the  infant  warld  a  shog, 

'Maist  ruined  a'. 

D  'ye  mind  that  day,  when  in  a  bizz, 
Wi'  reekit  duds,  and  reestit  gizz, 
Ys  did  present  your  smootie  phiz 
'Mang  better  folk, 

This  verse  ran  originally  as  follows  :  — 

Lang  syne,  in  Eden's  happy  scene, 
When  strappin'  Adam's  days  were  green 
And  Eve  wa?  like  my  bonnie  Jean, 

My  dearest  part, 
A  dancin',  sweet,  young  handsome  quean, 

0'  guileless  heart. 


ADDRESS   TO   THE  DEIL.  153 

And  sklented  on  the  man  of  Uzz 

Your  spitefu'  joke  ? 

And  how  ye  gat  him  i'  your  thrall, 
And  brak  him  out  o'  house  and  hall, 
While  scabs  and  blotches  did  him  gall, 

Wi'  bitter  claw, 
And  lows'd  his  ill-tongued,  wicked  scawl, 

Was  warst  ava  ? 

But  a'  your  doings  to  rehearse, 
Your  wily  snares  and  fechtin'  fierce, 
Sin'  that  day  Michael  did  you  pierce, 

Down  to  this  time, 
Wad  ding  a  Lallan  tongue,  or  Erse, 

In  prose  or  rhyme. 

And  now,  auld  Cloots,  I  ken  ye  're  thinkin', 
A  certain  bardie's  rantin',  drinkin', 
Some  luckless  hour  will  send  him  linkin' 

To  your  black  pit ; 
But,  faith  !  he  '11  turn  a  corner  jinkin' 

And  cheat  you  yet. 

But  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben  ! 

0  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  and  men'  1 
Ye  aiblins  might  —  I  dinna  ken  — 

Still  hae  a  stake  — 

1  'm  wae  to  think  upo'  yon  den, 

Even  for  your  sake  I 


154       THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 


ON  JOHN  DOVE, 

INNKEEPER,   MAUCHLINB. 

TTERE  lies  Johnny  Pigeon  ; 
What  was  his  religion  ? 

Wha  e'er  desires  to  ken, 
To  some  other  war? 
Maun  follow  the  carl, 

For  here  Johnny  Pigeon  had  nane  ! 

Strong  ale  was  ablution, 
Small  beer  persecution, 

A  dram  was  memento  mori  ; 
But  a  full-flowing  bowl 
Was  the  joy  of  his  soul, 

And  port  was  celestial  glory. 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS: 

A   CANTATA. 
RECITATIVO. 

AVTHEN  lyart  leaves  bestrew  the  yird, 
Or  wavering  like  the  baukie-bird, 

Bedim  cauld  Boreas'  blast ; 
When  hailstanes  drive  wi'  bitter  skyto 
And  infant  frosts  begin  to  bite, 

In  hoary  cranreuch  drest ; 
Ae  night  at  e'en  a  merry  core 

O'  randie,  gangrel  bodies, 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS.  155 

In  Poosie  Nansie's  held  the  splore, 
To  drink  their  orra  duddies  : 
Wi'  quaffing  and  laughing 

They  ranted  and  they  sang ; 
Wi'  jumping  and  thumping, 
The  vera  girdle  rang. 

First,  niest  the  fire,  in  auld  red  rags, 
Ane  sat,  weel  braced  wi'  mealy  bags, 

And  knapsack  a'  in  order  ; 
His  doxy  lay  within  his  arm, 
Wi'  usquebae  and  blankets  warm  - 

She  blinket  on  her  sodger  : 
And  aye  he  gies  the  tozie  drab 

The  tither  skelpin'  kiss, 
While  she  held  up  her  greedy  gab 
Just  like  an  auraos  dish. 

Ek  smack  still,  did  crack  still, 

Just  like  a  cadger's  whip, 
Then  staggering  and  swaggering, 
He  roared  this  ditty  up. 

AIR. 

Tune — Soldiers'1  Joy. 

1  am  a  son  of  Mars,  who  have  been  in  many  wars, 
And  shew  my  cuts  and  scars  wherever  I  come ; 
This  here  was   for  a  wench,  and   that  other  in  a 

trench, 
When  welcoming  the  French  at  the  sound  of  the 

drum. 

Lai  de  daudle,  etc. 


156  THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 

My  'prenticeship  I  past  where  my  leader  breathed 

his  last, 
When  the  bloody  die  was  cast  on  the  heights  of 

Abram ; 
I  served  out  my  trade  when  the  gallant  game  was 

played, 
And  the  Morro  low  was  laid  at  the  sound  of  the 

drum. 

Lai  de  daudle,  etc. 

I  lastly  was  with  Curtis,  among  the  floating-bat- 
teries, 

And  there  I  left  for  witness  an  arm  and  a  limb ; 

Yet  let  my  country  need  me,  with  Elliot  to  head 
me, 

I  'd  clatter  on  my  stumps  at  the  sound  of  a  drum. 
Lai  de  daudle,  etc. 

And  now  though  I  must  beg,  with  a  wooden  arm 

and  leg, 
And  many  a  tattered  rag  hanging  over  my  bum, 
I'm  as  happy  with  my  wallet,  my  bottle  and  my 

callet, 
As  when  I  used  in  scarlet  to  follow  a  drum. 
Lai  de  daudle,  etc. 

What  though  with  hoary  locks  I  must  stand  the 
winter  shocks, 

Beneath  the  woods  and  rocks  oftentimes  for  a 
home, 

When  the  t'other  bag  I  sell,  and  the  t'other  bot- 
tle tell, 


THE   JOLLY  BEGGARS.  157 

I  could   meet  a  troop  of  h —  at  the  sound  of  a 
drum. 

Lai  de  daudle,  etc. 

RECITATIVO. 

He  ended  ;  and  the  kebars  sheuk, 

Aboon  the  chorus  roar  ; 
While  frighted  rattons  backward  leuk, 

And  seek  the  benmost  bore. 
A  fairy  fiddler  frae  the  neuk, 

He  skirled  out  "  Encore  !  " 
But  up  arose  the  martial  chuck, 

And  laid  the  loud  uproar. 


AIR. 

Tune — Soldier  Laddie. 

I  once  was  a  maid,  though  I  cannot  tell  when, 
And  still  my  delight  is  in  proper  young  men ; 
Some  one  of  a  troop  of  dragoons  was  my  daddie, 
No  wonder  I  'm  fond  of  a  sodger  laddie. 
Sing,  Lai  de  lal,  etc. 

The  first  of  my  loves  was  a  swaggering  blade, 
To  rattle  the  thundering  drum  was  his  trade  ; 
His  leg  was  so  tight,  and  his  cheek  was  so  ruddy, 
Transported  I  was  with  my  sodger  laddie. 
Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  etc. 

But  the  godly  old  chaplain  left  him  in  the  lurch, 
The  sword  I  forsook  for  the  sake  of  the  church ; 


158  TEE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 

He  ventured  the  soul,  and  I  risked  the  hody  — 
*T  was  then  I  proved  false  to  my  sodger  laddie. 
Sing,  Lai  de  lal,  etc. 

Full  soon  I  grew  sick  of  my  sanctified  sot, 
The  regiment  at  large  for  a  husband  I  got ; 
From  the  gilded  spontoon  to  the  fife  I  was  ready, 
I  asked  no  more  but  a  sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  etc. 

But  the  peace  it  reduced  me  to  beg  in  despair, 
Till  I  met  my  old  boy  at  a  Cunningham  fair ; 
His  rags  regimental  they  fluttered  so  gaudy, 
My  heart  it  rejoiced  at  a  sodger  laddie. 
Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  etc. 

And  now  I  have  lived  —  I  know  not  how  long, 

And  still  I  can  join  in  a  cup  and  a  song ; 

But  whilst  with  both  hands  I  can  hold  the  glas,i 

steady, 
Here  'a  to  thee,  my  hero,  my  sodger  laddie. 
Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  etc. 

RECITATIVO. 

Poor  Merry  Andrew  in  the  neuk, 

Sat  guzzling  wi'  a  tinkler  hizzie  ; 
They  mind  't  na  wha  the  chorus  teuk; 

Between  themselves  they  were  sae  busy. 
At  length,  wi'  drink  and  courting  dizzy, 

He  stoitered  up  and  made  a  face  ; 
Then  turned,  and  laid  a  smack  on  Grizzie, 

Syne  tuned  his  pipes  wi'  grave  grimace. 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS.  159 

AIR. 

Tcnk  —  Aidd  Sir  Symon. 

Sir  Wisdom 's  a  fool  when  he 's  fou, 
Sir  Knave  is  a  fool  in  a  session ; 

He 's  there  but  a  'prentice  I  trow, 
But  I  am  a  fool  by  profession. 

My  grannie  she  bought  me  a  beuk, 
And  I  held  awa'  to  the  school ; 

I  fear  I  my  talent  misteuk, 

But  what  will  ye  hae  of  a  fool  ? 

For  drink  I  would  venture  my  neck, 
A  hizzie  's  the  half  o'  my  craft, 

But  what  could  ye  other  expect 
Of  ane  that 's  avowedly  daft  ? 

I  ance  was  tied  up  like  a  stirk, 
For  civilly  swearing  and  quaffin' ; 

I  ance  was  abused  in  the  kirk, 
For  touzling  a  lass  i'  my  damn. 

Poor  Andrew  that  tumbles  for  sport, 

Let  naebody  name  wi'  a  jeer ; 
There 's  even,  I  'in  tauld,  i'  the  court 

A  tumbler  ca'd  the  Premier. 

Observed  ye,  yon  reverend  lad 

Maks  faces  to  tickle  the  mob  ? 
He  rails  at  our  mountebank  squad  — 

It's  rivalship  just  i'  the  job. 


160  THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 

And  now  my  conclusion  I  'II  tell, 
For  faith  I  'm  confoundedly  dry ; 

The  chiel  that 's  a  fool  for  himsel', 
Guid  L — !  he 's  far  dafter  than  I. 


RECITATIVO. 

Then  niest  outspak  a  raucle  carlin, 
Wha  kent  fu'  weel  to  cleek  the  sterling, 
For  monie  a  pursie  she  had  hooked, 
And  had  in  monie  a  well  been  ducked. 
Her  dove  had  been  a  Highland  laddie, 
But  weary  fa'  the  waefu'  woodie  ! 
Wi'  sighs  and  sobs  she  thus  began 
To  wail  her  braw  John  Highlandman. 

AIR. 

Tune  —  O  an'  ye  were  dead,  Gtcidman. 

A  Highland  lad  my  love  was  born, 
The  Lawland  laws  he  held  in  scorn, 
But  he  still  was  faithfu'  to  his  clan, 
My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandman. 

CHORUS. 

Sing,  hey  my  braw  John  Highlandman 
Sing,  ho  my  braw  John  Highlandman  . 
There  's  not  a  lad  in  a'  the  Ian' 
"Was  match  for  my  John  Highlandman. 

With  his  philabcg  and  tartan  plaid, 
And  guid  claymore  down  by  his  side. 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS.  161 

The  ladies'  hearts  he  did  trepan, 
My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandman. 
Sing,  hey,  etc. 

We  ranged  a'  from  Tweed  to  Spey, 
And  lived  like  lords  and  ladies  gay ; 
For  a  Lawland  face  he  feared  none, 
My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandman. 
Sing,  hey,  etc. 

They  banished  him  beyond  the  sea, 
But  ere  the  bud  was  on  the  tree, 
Adown  my  cheeks  the  pearls  ran, 
Embracing  my  John  Highlandman. 
Sing,  hey,  etc. 

But,  oh !  they  catched  him  at  the  last, 
And  bound  him  in  a  dungeon  fast ; 
My  curse  upon  them  every  one, 
They've  hanged  my  braw  John  Highlandman. 
Sing,  hey,  etc. 

And  now  a  widow,  I  must  mourn 
The  pleasures  that  will  ne'er  return  ; 
No  comfort  but  a  hearty  can, 
When  I  think  on  John  Highlandman. 
Sing,  hey,  etc. 


RECITATIVO. 

A  pigmy  scraper,  wi'  his  fiddle, 

Wha  used  at  trysts  and  fairs  to  driddle, 

VOL.   I.  11 


102  THE  JOLLY   BEGGARS. 

Her  strappin'  limb  and  gaucy  middle 
(He  reached  na  higher) 

Had  holed  his  heartie  like  a  riddle, 
And  blawn  't  on  fire. 

Wi'  hand  on  haunch,  and  upward  e'e, 
He  crooned  his  gamut,  one,  two,  three, 
Then  in  an  arioso  key, 

The  wee  Apollo 
Set  off  wi'  allegretto  glee 

His  giga  solo. 


AIR. 

Tone  —  Whistle  otore  the  lave  o'  '*. 

Let  me  ryke  up  to  dight  that  tear, 
And  go  wi'  me  and  be  my  dear, 
And  then  your  every  care  and  fear 
May  whistle  owre  the  lave  o'  't. 


I  am  a  fiddler  to  my  trade, 
And  a'  the  tunes  that  e'er  I  played, 
The  sweetest  still  to  wife  or  maid, 
Was  whistle  owre  the  lave  o'  't. 

At  kirns  and  weddings  we  'se  be  there, 
And  oh  !  sae  nicely 's  we  will  fare  ; 
We  '11  bouse  about  till  Daddy  Care 
Sings  whistle  owre  the  lave  o'  't. 
I  am,  etc. 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS.  163 

Sae  merrily  the  banes  we  '11  pyke, 
And  sun  oursel's  about  the  dike, 
And  at  our  leisure,  when  ye  like, 
We  '11  whistle  owre  the  lave  o'  't 
I  am,  etc. 

But  bless  me  wi'  your  heaven  o'  charms, 
And  while  I  kittle  hair  on  thairms, 
Hunger,  cauld,  and  a'  sic  harms, 
May  whistle  owre  the  lave  o'  't. 
I  am,  etc. 

BECITATIVO. 

Her  charms  had  struck  a  sturdy  eaird, 

As  weel  as  poor  gut-scraper  ; 
He  taks  the  fiddler  by  the  beard, 

And  draws  a  rusty  rapier. 

He  swore  by  a'  was  swearing  worth, 

To  speet  him  like  a  pliver, 
Unless  he  wad  from  that  time  forth 

Relinquish  her  for  ever. 

Wi'  ghastly  e'e,  poor  Tweedle-dee 

Upon  his  hunkers  bended, 
And  prayed  for  grace  wi'  ruefu*  face, 

And  sae  the  quarrel  ended. 

But  though  his  little  heart  did  grieve 
When  round  the  tinkler  prest  her, 

He  feigned  to  snirtle  in  his  sleeve, 
When  thus  the  caird  addressed  her: 


164  THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 


Tune  —  Clout  the  Caudron. 

My  bonny  lass,  I  work  in  brass, 

A  tinkler  is  my  station. 
I  've  travelled  round  all  Christian  ground 

In  this  my  occupation  : 
I  've  ta'en  the  gold,  I  've  been  enrolled 

In  many  a  noble  squadron  : 
But  vain  they  searched,  when  off  I  marched 

To  go  and  clout  the  caudron. 

I  've  ta'en  the  gold,  etc. 

Despise  that  shrimp,  that  withered  imp, 

Wi'  a'  his  noise  and  cap'rin', 
And  tak  a  share  wi'  those  that  bear 

The  budget  and  the  apron. 
And  by  that  stoup,  my  faith  and  houp, 

And  by  that  dear  Kilbagie, 
If  e'er  you  want,  or  meet  wi'  scant, 

May  I  ne'er  weet  my  craigie. 

And  by  that  stoup,  etc. 

RECITATIVO. 

The  caird  prevailed  —  the  unblushing  fair 

In  his  embraces  sunk, 
Partly  wi'  love  o'ercome  sae  sair, 

And  partly  she  was  drunk. 
Sir  Violino,  with  an  air 

That  shewed  a  man  of  spunk, 
Wished  unison  between  the  pair, 

And  made  the  bottle  clunk 

To  their  health  that  night. 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS.  10.". 

But  huicbin  Cupid  shot  a  shaft 

That  played  a  dame  a  shavie, 
The  fiddler  raked  her  fore  and  aft, 

Ahint  the  chicken  cavie. 
Her  lord,  a  wight  o'  Homer's  craft, 

Though  limping  wi'  the  spavie, 
He  hirpled  up,  and  lap  like  daft, 

And  shored  them  Dainty  Davie 
O'  boot  that  night. 

He  was  a  care-defying  blade 

As  ever  Bacchus  listed, 
Though  Fortune  sair  upon  him  laid, 

His  heart  she  ever  missed  it. 
He  had  nae  wish  but  —  to  be  glad, 

Nor  want  but  —  when  he  thirsted  ; 
He  hated  nought  but  —  to  be  sad, 

And  thus  the  Muse  suggested 
His  sang  that  night 

AIR. 
Tone  — For  a1  that,  and  a'  that. 

I  am  a  bard  of  no  regard 

Wi'  gentle  folks,  and  a'  that ; 
But  Homer-like,  the  glowrin'  byke, 

Frae  town  to  town  I  draw  that. 

CHORUS. 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

And  twice  as  muckle  's  a'  that, 

I  've  lost  but  ane,  I  've  twa  behin', 
I  've  wife  eneugh  for  a'  that. 


166  THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 

I  never  drank  the  Muses'  stank, 
Castalia's  burn,  and  a'  that ; 

But  there  it  streams,  and  richly  reams, 
My  Helicon  I  ca'  that, 

For  a'  that,  etc. 

Great  love  I  bear  to  a'  the  fair, 
Their  humble  slave,  and  a'  that ; 

But  lordly  will,  I  hold  it  still 

A  mortal  sin  to  thraw  that. 

For  a'  that,  etc. 

In  raptures  sweet,  this  hour  we  meet, 
Wi'  mutual  love,  and  a'  that ; 

But  for  how  lang  the  flie  may  stang, 
Let  inclination  law  that. 
For  a'  that,  etc. 

Their  tricks  and  craft  have  put  me  daft, 
They  've  ta'en  me  in.  and  a'  that ; 

But  clear  your  decks,  and  here 's  the  sex ; 
I  like  the  jads  for  a'  that. 

CHORUS. 

For  a  that,  and  a'  that, 

And  twice  as  muckle  's  a'  that ; 

My  dearest  bluid,  to  do  them  guid, 
They  're  welcome  till't  for  a'  that. 

RKCITATIVO. 

So  sang  the  bard  —  and  Nansie's  wa's 
Shook  with  a  thunder  of  applause, 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS.  16 1 

Re-echoed  from  each  mouth  : 
They  toomed  their  pokes,  and  pawned  their  duds, 
They  scarcely  left  to  co'er  their  fuds, 

To  quench  their  lowin'  drouth. 
Then  owre  again,  the  jovial  thrang 

The  poet  did  request, 
To  loose  his  pack  and  wale  a  sang, 
A  ballad  o'  the  best ; 
He  rising,  rejoicing, 

Between  his  twa  Deborahs, 
Looks  round  him,  and  found  them 
Impatient  for  the  chorus. 


AIR. 
Tunk  —  Jolly  Mortals,  jM  your  Glasies. 

See  the  smoking  bowl  before  us, 

Mark  our  jovial  ragged  ring  ! 
Round  and  round  take  up  the  chorus, 

And  in  raptures  let  us  sing. 

CHORUS. 

A  fig  for  those  by  law  protected  1 
Liberty  's  a  glorious  feast ! 

Courts  for  cowards  were  erected, 
Churches  built  to  please  the  priest. 

What  is  title  ?  what  is  treasure  ? 

What  is  reputation's  care  ? 
If  we  lead  a  life  of  pleasure, 

T  is  no  matter  how  or  where  I 
A  fig,  etc. 


108  THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 

With  the  ready  trick  and  fable, 
Round  we  wander  all  the  day ; 

And  at  night,  in  barn  or  stable, 
Hug  our  doxies  on  the  hay. 
A  fig,  etc. 

Does  the  train-attended  carriage 
Through  the  country  lighter  rove  ? 

Does  the  sober  bed  of  marriage 
Witness  brighter  scenes  of  love  ? 
A  fig,  etc. 

Life  is  all  a  variorum, 

We  regard  not  how  it  goes  ; 
Let  them  cant  about  decorum 

Who  have  characters  to  lose. 
A  fig,  etc. 

Here 's  to  budgets,  bags,  and  wallets ! 

Here 's  to  all  the  wandering  train ! 
Here  's  our  ragged  brats  and  callets  ! 

One  and  all  cry  out  —  Amen  ! 

A  fig  for  those  by  law  protected  I 
Liberty 's  a  glorious  feast ! 

Courts  for  cowards  were  erected, 
Churches  built  to  please  the  priest. 


EPISTLE   TO  JAMES   SMITH.  1UJ 


TO  JAMES   SMITH. 

'•Friendship!  mysterious  cement  of  the  soul ! 
Sweet'ner  of  life,  and  solder  of  society  ! 
I  owe  thee  much  ! "  —  Blair. 

"PVEAR  Smith,  the  slee'est,  paukie  thief 

That  e'er  attempted  stealth  or  rief, 
Ye  surely  hae  some  wurloek-breef 

Owre  human  hearts; 
For  ne'er  a  bosom  yet  was  prief 

Against  your  arts. 

For  me,  I  swear  by  sun  and  moon, 
And  every  star  that  blinks  aboon, 
Ye  've  cost  me  twenty  pair  o'  shoon 

Just  gaun  to  see  you ; 
And  every  ither  pair  that 's  done, 

Mair  ta'en  I  'm  wi'  you. 

That  auld  capricious  carlin,  Nature, 
To  mak  amends  lor  scrimpet  stature, 
She  's  turned  you  aff,  a  human  creature 

On  her  first  plan  ; 
And  in  her  freaks,  on  every  feature 

She  's  wrote,  the  Man. 

Just  now  I  've  ta'en  the  fit  o'  rhyme, 
My  barmie  noddle  's  working  prime, 
My  fancy  yerkit  up  sublime 

Wi'  hasty  summon  : 
Hae  ye  a  leisure  moment's  time, 

To  hear  what 's  comin'  ? 


170  EPISTLE   TO  JAMES  SMITH. 

Some  rhyme  a  neighbour's  name  to  lash  ; 
Some  rhyme  (vain  thought !)  for  needfu'  cash 
Some  rhyme  to  court  the  country  clash, 

And  raise  a  din  ; 
For  me,  an  aim  I  never  fash  — 

I  rhyme  for  fun. 

The  star  that  rules  my  luckless  lot, 
Has  fated  me  the  russet  coat, 
And  d — d  my  fortune  to  the  groat ; 

But  in  requit, 
Has  blest  me  wi'  a  random  shot 

O'  country  wit. 

This  while  my  notion  's  ta'en  a  sklent, 
To  try  my  fate  in  guid  black  prent ; 
But  still  the  mair  I  'm  that  way  bent, 

Something  cries  "  Hoolie  ! 
I  red  you,  honest  man,  tak  tent ! 

Ye  '11  shaw  your  folly. 

"  There 's  ither  poets  much  your  betters, 
Far  seen  in  Greek,  deep  men  o'  letters, 
Hae  thought  they  had  insured  their  debtors 

A'  future  ages  ; 
Now  moths  deform,  in  shapeless  tatters, 

Their  unknown  pages." 

Then  farewell  hopes  o'  laurel-boughs, 
To  garland  my  poetic  brows  ! 
Henceforth  1 11  rove  where  busy  ploughs 
Are  whistling  thrang, 


EPISTLE   TO  JAMES  SMITH.  171 

And  teach  the  lanely  heights  and  howes 
My  rustic  sang. 

I  '11  wander  on,  with  tentless  heed 
How  never-halting  moments  speed, 
Till  fate  shall  snap  the  brittle  thread  ; 

Then,  all  unknown, 
I  '11  lay  me  with  the  inglorious  dead, 

Forgot  and  gone  1 

But  why  o'  death  begin  a  tale  ? 

Just  now  we  're  living  sound  and  hale  : 

Then  top  and  maintop  crowd  the  sail, 

Heave  Care  o'er  side  ! 
And  large  before  Enjoyment's  gale, 

Let 's  tak  the  tide 

This  life,  sae  far 's  I  understand, 

Is  a'  enchanted  fairy-land, 

Where  Pleasure  is  the  magic  wand, 

That,  wielded  right, 
Maks  hours  like  minutes,  hand  in  hand, 

Dance  by  fu'  light. 

The  magic  wand  then  let  us  wield  ; 
For,  ance  that  five-and-forty  's  speel'd, 
See,  crazy,  weary,  joyless  eild, 

Wi'  wrinkled  face, 
Comes  hostin',  hirplin'  owre  the  field, 

Wi'  creepin'  pace. 

When  ance  life's  day  draws  near  the  gloamin' 
Then  fareweel  vacant  careless  roamin' 


172  EPISTLE   TO  JAMES  SMITH. 

And  fareweel  cheerfu'  tankards  foamin', 

And  social  noise ; 
And  fareweel  dear,  deluding  woman, 

The  joy  of  joys  ! 

Oh,  Life  !  how  pleasant  in  thy  morning, 
Young  Fancy's  rays  the  hills  adorning  ! 
Cold-pausing  Caution's  lesson  scorning, 

We  frisk  away, 
Like  school-boys,  at  the  expected  warning, 

To  joy  and  play. 

We  wander  there,  we  wander  here, 
We  eye  the  rose  upon  the  brier, 
Unmindful  that  the  thorn  is  near, 

Among  the  leaves : 
And  though  the  puny  wound  appear, 

Short  while  it  grieves. 

Some,  lucky,  find  a  flowery  spot, 
For  which  they  never  toiled  or  swat ; 
They  drink  the  sweet  and  eat  the  fat, 

But  care  or  pain  ; 
And,  haply,  eye  the  barren  hut 

With  high  disdain. 

With  steady  aim  some  fortune  chase  ; 

Keen  hope  does  every  sinew  brace  ; 

Through  fair,  through  foul,  they  urge  the  race, 

And  seize  the  prey  : 
Then  cannie,  in  some  cozie  place, 

They  close  the  day. 


EFI8TLE   TO  JAMES  SMITH.  173 

And  others,  like  your  humble  servan', 
Poor  wights  !  nae  rules  nor  roads  observin', 
To  right  or  left,  eternal  swervin', 

They  zigzag  on  ; 
Till  curst  with  age,  obscure  and  starvin', 

They  aften  groan. 

Alas  !  what  bitter  toil  and  straining  — 
But  truce  with  peevish,  poor  complaining  ! 
Is  Fortune's  fickle  Luna  waning  ? 

E'en  let  her  gang  ! 
Beneath  what  light  she  has  remaining, 

Let 's  sing  our  sang. 

My  pen  I  here  fling  to  the  door, 

And  kneel,  "  Ye  Powers,"  and  warm  implore, 

"  Though  I  should  wander  Terra  o'er, 

In  all  her  climes, 
Grant  me  but  this,  I  ask  no  more, 

Aye  rowth  o'  rhymes. 

"  Gie  dreeping  roasts  to  country  lairds. 
Till  icicles  hing  frae  their  beards ; 
Gie  fine  braw  clacs  to  fine  life-guards, 

And  maids  of  honour; 
And  yill  and  whisky  gie  to  cairds, 

Until  they  sconner. 

u  A  title,  Dempster  merits  it ; 
A  garter  gie  to  Willie  Pitt ; 
Gie  wealth  to  some  be-ledgered  cit, 
In  cent,  per  cent 


174         EPISTLE   TO  JAMES  SMITE. 

But  give  me  real,  sterling  wit, 
And  I  'm  content. 

"  While  ye  are  pleased  to  keep  me  hale, 
1 11  sit  down  o'er  my  scanty  meal, 
Be 't  water-brose,  or  muslin-kail, 

Wi'  cheerfu'  face, 
As  lang  's  the  Muses  dinna  fail 

To  say  the  grace." 

An  anxious  e'e  I  never  throws 
Behint  my  lug  or  by  my  nose  ; 
I  jouk  beneath  Misfortune's  blows 

As  weel  's  I  may  ; 
Sworn  foe  to  Sorrow,  Care,  and  Prose, 

I  rhyme  away. 

Oh  ye  douce  folk,  that  live  by  rule, 
Grave,  tideless-blooded,  calm  and  cool, 
Compared  wi'  you  —  oh  fool !  fool !  fool 

How  much  unlike ; 
Your  hearts  are  just  a  standing-pool, 

Your  lives  a  dike  ! 

Nae  hairbrained,  sentimental  traces, 
In  your  unlettered  nameless  faces  ! 
In  arioso  trills  and  graces 

Ye  never  stray, 
But  gravissimo,  solemn  basses 

Ye  hum  away. 

Ye  are  sae  grave,  nae  doubt  ye  rre  wise ; 
Nae  ferly  though  ye  do  despise 


THE   VISION.  175 

The  hairum-scairum,  ram-stam  boya, 

The  ratthng  squad : 
I  see  you  upward  cast  your  eyes  — 

Ye  ken  the  road. 

Whilst  I  —  but  I  shall  haud  me  there  — 
Wi'  you  I  '11  scarce  gang  ony  where : 
Then,  Jamie,  I  shall  say  nae  mair, 

But  quat  my  sang, 
Content  with  you  to  mak  a  pair, 

Whare'er  I  gang. 


THE  VISION. 


DUAX  FIRST. 


HPHE  sun  had  closed  the  winter-day, 

The  curlers  quat  their  roaring  play, 
And  hungered  maukin  ta'en  her  way 

To  kail-yards  green, 
While  faithless  snaws  ilk  step  betray 

Whare  she  has  been. 

The  thrashjr's  weary  flingin'-tree 
The  lee-lang  day  had  tired  me ; 
And  when  the  day  had  closed  his  e'e, 

Far  i'  the  west, 
Ben  i'  the  spence,  right  pensivelie, 

I  gaed  to  rest. 

There,  lanely,  by  the  ingle-cheek, 
I  sat  and  eyed  the  spewing  reek, 


THE   VISION. 

That  filled  wi'  hoast-provoking  smeek 
The  auld  clay  biggin' ; 

And  heard  the  restless  rattons  squeak 
About  the  riggin'. 

All  in  this  mottie,  misty  clime, 
I  backward  mused  on  wasted  time, 
How  I  had  spent  my  youthfu'  prime 

And  done  nae  thing, 
But  stringin'  blethers  up  in  rhyme, 

For  fools  to  sing. 

Had  I  to  guid  advice  but  harkit, 
I  might,  by  this,  hae  led  a  market, 
Or  strutted  in  a  bank,  and  clarkit 

My  cash-account : 
While  here,  half-mad,  half-fed,  half-sarkit, 

Is  a'  th'  amount. 

I  started,  muttering,  blockhead  !  coof ! 
And  heaved  on  high  my  waukit  loof, 
To  swear  by  a'  yon  starry  roof, 

Or  some  rash  aith, 
That  I  henceforth  would  be  rhyme-proof 

Till  my  last  breath. 

When,  click  !  the  string  the  snick  did  draw  ; 
And,  jee  !  the  door  gaed  to  the  wa' ; 
And  by  my  ingle-lowe  I  saw, 

Now  bleezin'  bright, 
A  tight,  outlandish  hizzie,  braw, 

Come  full  in  sight. 


THE   VISION.  17; 

Te  needna  doubt  I  held  my  whisht ; 
The  infant  aith,  half-formed,  was  crusht ; 
I  glowred  as  eerie  's  I  'd  been  dusht 

In  some  wild  glen  ; 
When  sweet,  like  modest  Worth,  she  blusht. 

And  stepped  ben. 

Green,  slender,  leaf-clad  holly-boughs 
Were  twisted  gracefu'  round  her  brows  ; 
I  took  her  for  some  Scottish  Muse, 

By  that  same  token, 
And  come  to  stop  those  reckless  vows, 

Would  soon  been  broken, 

A  "  hairbrained,  sentimental  trace ' 
Was  strongly  marked  in  her  face ; 
A  wildly-witty,  rustic  grace 

Shone  full  upon  her  ; 
Her  eye,  even  turned  on  empty  space, 

Beamed  keen  with  honour. 

Down  flowed  her  robe,  a  tartan  sheen, 
Till  half  a  leg  was  scrimply  seen  ; 
And  such  a  leg !  my  bonny  Jean  * 

Could  only  peer  it ; 
Sae  straught,  sae  taper,  tight  and  clean, 

Nane  else  cam  near  it. 


1  In  the  first  edition,  the  line  stood  thus  — 

"And  such  a  log!  ray  Bess,  I  ween." 
Indignation  at  the  conduct  of  Jean  induced  him  to  take  the  com- 
pliment from  her,  and  bestow  it  on  another  person  for  whom  at 
the  time  he  entertained  an  admiration.  In  the  first  Edinburgh 
edition,  the  indignant  feeling  haying  subsided,  the  line  was  re- 
stored as  aboyo. 

voi,.  1.  12 


178  THE   VISION. 

Her  mantle  large,  of  greenish  hue, 

My  gazing  wonder  chiefly  drew  ; 

Deep  lights  and  shades,  bold-mingling,  threw 

A  lustre  grand  ; 
And  seemed  to  my  astonished  view 

A  well-known  land. 

Here,  rivers  in  the  sea  were  lost ; 
There,  mountains  to  the  skies  were  tost : 
Here,  tumbling  billows  marked  the  coast 

With  surging  foam  ; 
There,  distant  shone  Art's  lofty  boast  — 

The  lordly  dome. 

Here,  Doon  poured  down  his  far-fetched  floods ; 
There,  well-fed  Irwine  stately  thuds  : 
Auld  hermit  Ayr  staw  through  his  woods, 

On  to  the  shore, 
And  many  a  lesser  torrent  scuds 

With  seeming  roar. 

Low  in  a  sandy  valley  spread, 

An  ancient  borough  reared  her  head ; 

Still,  as  in  Scottisli  story  read, 

She  boasts  a  race 
To  everj7  nobler  virtue  bred, 

And  polished  grace. 

By  stately  tower  or  palace  fair, 
Or  ruins  pendent  in  the  air, 
Bold  stems  of  heroes,  here  and  there, 
I  could  discern  ; 


THE  VISION.  179 

Some  seemed  to  muse,  some  seemed  to  dare, 
With  feature  stern. 

My  heart  did  glowing  transport,  feel, 

To  see  a  race  heroic  wheel, 

And  brandish  round  the  deep-dyed  steel 

In  sturdy  blows  ; 
While  back-recoiling  seemed  to  reel 

Their  suthron  foes. 

His  Country's  Saviour,  mark  him  well ! 
Bold  Richardton's  heroic  swell ; 
The  chief  on  Sark  who  glorious  fell 

In  high  command  ; 
And  he  whom  ruthless  fates  expel 

His  native  land. 

There,  where  a  sceptred  Pictish  shade 
Stalked  round  his  ashes  lowly  laid, 
I  marked  a  martial  race,  portrayed 

In  colours  strong ; 
Bold,  soldier-featured,  undismayed, 

They  strode  along. 

Through  many  a  wild  romantic  grove, 
Near  many  a  hermit-fancied  cove 
(Fit  haunts  for  friendship  or  for  love), 

In  musing  mood, 
An  aged  judge,  I  saw  him  rove, 

Dispensing  good. 

With  deep-struck  reverential  awe, 
The  learned  sire  and  son  I  saw, 


180  THE   VISION. 

To  Nature's  God  and  Nature's  law 
They  gave  their  lore, 

This,  all  its  source  and  end  to  draw, 
That,  to  adore. 

Brydone's  brave  ward  I  well  could  spy, 
Beneath  old  Scotia's  smiling  eye  ; 
Who  called  on  Fame,  low  standing  by, 

To  hand  him  on, 
Where  many  a  patriot-name  on  high, 

And  hero  shone. 


DUAN    SECOND. 

With  musing-deep,  astonished  stare, 
I  viewed  the  heavenly-seeming  fair ; 
A  whispering  throb  did  witness  bear 

Of  kindred  sweet, 
When  with  an  elder  sister's  air 

She  did  me  greet. 

u  All  hail,  my  own  inspired  bard  ! 
In  me  thy  native  Muse  regard  ! 
Nor  longer  mourn  thy  fate  is  hard, 

Thus  poorly  low  ! 
I  come  to  give  thee  such  reward 

As  we  bestow. 

"  Know,  the  great  genius  of  this  land 
Has  many  a  light,  aerial  band, 
Who,  all  beneath  his  high  command, 
Harmoniously, 


THE    VISION.  181 

As  arts  or  arms  they  understand, 
Their  labours  ply. 

"  They  Scotia's  race  among  them  share  ; 
Some  fire  the  soldier  on  to  dare  ; 
Some  rouse  the  patriot  up  to  bare 

Corruption's  heart : 
Some  teach  the  bard,  a  darling  care, 

The  tuneful  art. 

"  'Mong  swelling  floods  of  reeking  gore, 
They,  ardent,  kindling  spirits,  pour ; 
Or,  'mid  the  venal  senate's  roar, 

They,  sightless,  stand, 
To  mend  the  honest  patriot-lore, 

And  grace  the  hand. 

'  And  when  the  bard,  or  hoary  sage, 
Charm  or  instruct  the  future  age, 
They  bind  the  wild,  poetic  rage 

In  energy, 
Or  point  the  inconclusive  page 

Full  on  the  eye. 

"  Hence  Fullarton,  the  brave  and  young 
Hence  Dempster's  zeal-inspired  1  tongue 
Hence  sweet  harmonious  Bcattie  sung 

His  '  Minstrel  lays  ; ' 
Or  tore,  with  noble  ardour  stung, 

The  sceptic's  bays. 

1  In  first  edition  — 

"Hence  Dempster's  truth-prevailing  tongue." 


182  THE   VISION. 

u  To  lower  orders  are  assigned 
The  humbler  ranks  of  humankind, 
The  rustic  bard,  the  labouring-hind, 

The  artisan ; 
All  choose,  as  various  they  're  inclined, 

The  various  man. 

"  When  yellow  waves  the  heavy  grain, 
The  threatening  storm  some  strongly  rein 
Some  teach  to  meliorate  the  plain, 

With  tillage  skill ; 
And  some  instruct  the  shepherd-train, 

Blithe  o'er  the  hill. 

"  Some  hint  the  lover's  harmless  wile ; 
Some  grace  the  maiden's  artless  smile  ; 
Some  soothe  the  labourer's  weary  toil, 

For  humble  gains, 
And  make  his  cottage-scenes  beguile 

His  cares  and  pains. 

"  Some,  bounded  to  a  district-space, 
Explore  at  large  man's  infant  race, 
To  mark  the  embryotic  trace 

Of  rustic  bard; 
And  careful  note  each  opening  grace, 

A  guide  and  guard. 

"  Of  these  am  I  —  Coila  my  name ; 
And  this  district  as  mine  I  claim, 
Where  once  the  Campbells,  chiefs  of  fame; 
Held  ruling  power : 


TEE   VISION.  183 

I  marked  thy  embryo  tuneful  flame, 
Thy  natal  hour. 

"  With  future  hope,  I  oft  would  gaze, 
Fond,  on  thy  little  early  ways, 
Thy  rudely-caroled,  chiming  phrase, 

In  uncouth  rhymes, 
Fired  at  the  simple,  artless  lays 

Of  other  times. 

"  I  saw  thee  seek  the  sounding  shore, 
Delighted  with  the  dashing  roar  ; 
Or  when  the  north  his  fleecy  store 

Drove  through  the  sky,  r 

I  saw  grim  Nature's  visage  hoar 

Struck  thy  young  eye. 

"  Or  when  the  deep  green-mantled  earth 
Warm  cherished  every  floweret's  birth, 
And  joy  and  music  pouring  forth 

In  every  grove, 
I  saw  thee  eye  the  general  mirth 

With  boundless  love. 

u  When  ripened  fields,  and  azure  skies, 
Called  forth  the  reaper's  rustling  noise, 
I  saw  thee  leave  their  evening  joys, 

And  lonely  stalk, 
To  vent  thy  bosom's  swelling  rise 

In  pensive  walk. 

"  When  youthful  love,  warm-blushing,  strong, 
Keen  shivering  shot  thy  nerves  along, 


184  THE   VISION. 

Thoee  accents,  grateful  to  thy  tongue, 
Th'  adored  Name, 

I  taught  thee  how  to  pour  in  song, 
To  soothe  thy  flame. 

"  I  saw  thy  pulse's  maddening  play, 
Wild  send  thee  Pleasure's  devious  way, 
Misled  by  Fancy's  meteor-ray, 

By  passion  driven  ; 
But  yet  the  light  that  led  astray 

Was  light  from  Heaven. 

*'  I  taught  thy  manners  painting  strains, 
The  loves,  the  wants  of  simple  swains, 
Till  now,  o'er  all  my  wide  domains 

Thy  fame  extends ; 
And  some,  the  pride  of  Coila's  plains, 

Become  thy  friends. 

"  Thou  canst  not  learn,  nor  can  I  shew, 
To  paint  with  Thomson's  landscape  glow 
Or  wake  the  bosom-melting  throe, 

With  Shenstone's  art ; 
Or  pour,  with  Gray,  the  moving  flow 

Warm  on  the  heart. 

"  Yet,  all  beneath  the  unrivalled  rose, 

The  lowly  daisy  sweetly  blows  ; 

Though  large  the  forest's  monarch  throws, 

His  army  shade, 
Yet  green  the  juicy  hawthorn  grows 

Adown  the  glade. 


A    WINTER  NIGHT.  185 

"  Then  never  murmur  nor  repine  ; 
Strive  in  thy  humble  sphere  to  shine  ; 
And,  trust  me,  not  Potosi's  mine, 

Nor  king's  regard, 
Can  give  a  bliss  o'ermatohing  thine, 

A  rustic  bard. 

"  To  give  my  counsels  all  in  one  — 
Thy  tuneful  flame  still  careful  fan  ; 
Preserve  the  dignity  of  man, 

With  soul  erect ; 
And  trust,  the  universal  plan 

Will  all  protect. 

"And  wear  thou  this,"  she  solemn  said, 
And  bound  the  holly  round  my  head : 
The  polished  leaves,  and  berries  red, 

Did  rustling  play ; 
And,  like  a  passing  thought,  she  fled 

In  light  away. 


A   WINTER    NIGHT. 

Poor  naked  wretches,  whercsoe'er  you  are. 
That  bide  the  pelting  of  the  pitiless  storm  ! 
How  shall  jour  houseless  heads  anil  unfed  sides, 
Your  looped  and  wiudowed  raggedness,  defend  you 
From  seasons  such  as  these  ?  "  —  Shakspeare. 

"VVrIIEN  biting  Boreas,  fell  and  doure, 

Sharp  shivers  through  the  leafless  bower 
When  Phoebus  gies  a  short-lived  glower 
Far  south  the  lift, 


186  A    WINTER  NIGHT. 

Dim-darkening  through  the  flaky  shower, 
Or  whirling  drift  : 

A.e  night  the  storm  the  steeples  rocked, 
Poor  Labour  sweet  in  sleep  was  locked, 
While  burns,  wi'  snawy  wreaths  up-choked, 

Wild-eddying  swirl, 
Or,  through  the  mining  outlet  bocked, 

Down  headlong  hurl. 

Listening  the  doors  and  winnocks  rattle, 
I  thought  me  on  the  ourie  cattle, 
Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle 

O'  winter  war, 
And  through  the  drift,  deep-lairing,  sprattle, 

Beneath  a  scaur. 

Ilk  happing  bird,  wee,  helpless  thing, 
That,  in  the  merry  months  o'  spring, 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o'  thee  V 
Whare  wilt  thou  cower  thy  cluttering  wing, 

And  close  thy  e'e  ? 

Even  you,  on  murdering  errands  toiled, 

Lone  from  your  savage  homes  exiled, 

The  blood-stained  roost,  and  sheep-cot  spoiled, 

My  heart  forgets, 
"While  pitiless  the  tempest  wild 

Sore  on  you  beats. 

Now  Phoebe,  in  her  midnight  reign, 
Dark  muffled,  viewed  the  dreary  plain ; 


A    WINTER  NIGHT.  187 

Still  crowding  thoughts,  a  pensive  train, 

Rose  in  my  soul, 
When  on  my  ear  this  plaintive  strain 

Slow,  solemn,  stole  :  — 

"  Blow,  blow,  ye  winds,  with  heavier  gust ! 
And  freeze,  thou  bitter-biting  frost ! 
Descend,  ye  chilly,  smothering  snows  ! 
Not  all  your  rage,  as  now  united,  shews 
More  hard  unkindness,  unrelenting, 
Vengeful  malice  unrepenting, 
Than  heaven-illumined  man  on  brother  man  be- 
stows ! 

"  See  stem  Oppression's  iron  grip, 

Or  mad  Ambition's  gory  hand, 
Sending,  like  blood-hounds  from  the  slip, 

Wo,  Want,  and  Murder  o'er  a  land  ! 
S'en  in  the  peaceful  rural  vale, 
Truth,  weeping,  tells  the  irournful  tale, 
How  pampered  Luxury,  Flattery  by  her  side, 

The  parasite  empoisoning  her  ear, 

With  all  the  servile  wretches  in  the  rear, 
Looks  o'er  proud  Property,  extended  wide  ; 

And  eyes  the  simple  rustic  hind, 

Whose  toil  upholds  the  glittering  show, 

A  creature  of  another  kind, 

Some  coarser  substance,  unrefined, 
Placed  for  her  lordly  use  thus  far,  thus  vile  below 

"  Where,  where  is  Love's  fond,  tender  throe, 
With  lordly  Honour's  lofty  brow, 
The  powers  you  proudly  own  ? 


188  A    WINTER  NIGHT. 

Is  there,  beneath  Love's  noble  name, 
Can  harbour  dark  the  selfish  aim, 

To  bless  himself  alone  ! 
Mark  maiden  innocence  a  prey 

To  love-pretending  snares  :  — 
This  boasted  Honour  turns  away, 
Shunning  soft  Pity's  rising  sway, 
Regardless  of  the  tears  and  unavailing  prayers  1 
Perhaps  this  hour,  in  misery's  squalid  nest, 
She  strains  your  infant  to  her  joyless  breast, 
And  with  a  mother's  fears  shrinks  at  the  rocking 
blast  1 

"  Oh  ye  who,  sunk  in  beds  of  down, 
Feel  not  a  want  but  what  yourselves  create, 
Think  for  a  moment  on  his  wretched  fate 
Whom  friends  and  fortune  quite  disown  ! 
Ill  satisfied  keen  Nature's  clamorous  call, 

Stretched  on  his  straw,  he  lays  himself  to  sleep, 
While  through  the  ragged  roof  and  chinky  wall, 
Chill  o'er  his  slumbers  piles  the  drifty  Leap  ! 
Think  on  the  dungeon's  grim  confine, 
Where  Guilt  and  poor  Misfortune  pine  1 
Guilt,  erring  man,  relenting  view  ! 
But  shall  thy  legal  rage  pursue 
The  wretch,  already  crushed  low 
By  cruel  Fortune's  undeserved  blow  ? 
Affliction's  sons  are  brothers  in  distress  ; 
A  brother  to  relieve,  how  exquisite  the  bliss  !  " 

I  heard  nae  mair,  for  Chanticleer 
Shook  off  the  pouthery  snaw, 


YOUNG  PEGGY.  189 

And  hailed  the  morning  with  a  cheer, 
A  cottage-rousing  craw. 

But  deep  this  truth  impressed  my  mind  — 

Through  all  His  works  abroad, 
The  heart  benevolent  and  kind 

The  most  resembles  God. 


YOUNG   PEGGY. 

Tune  —  Last  time  I  came  o'er  the  Muir. 

"V^OUNG  Peggy  blooms  our  bonniest  la6S, 

Her  blush  is  like  the  morning, 
The  rosy  dawn,  the  springing  grass, 

With  early  gems  adorning  : 
Her  eyes  outshine  the  radiant  beams 

That  gild  the  passing  shower, 
And  glitter  o'er  the  crystal  streams, 

And  cheer  each  freshening  flower. 

Her  lips,  more  than  the  cherries  bright, 

A  richer  dye  has  graced  them  ; 
They  charm  th'  admiring  gazer's  sight, 

And  sweetly  tempt  to  taste  them  : 
Her  smile  is  as  the  evening  mild, 

When  feathered  tribes  are  courting, 
And  little  lambkins  wanton  wild, 

In  playful  bands  disporting. 

Were  Fortune  lovely  Peggy's  foe, 
Such  sweetness  would  relent  her, 


190  SCOTCE  DRINK. 

As  blooming  Spring  unbends  the  brow 

Of  surly,  savage  Winter. 
Detraction's  eye  no  aim  can  gain, 

Her  winning  powers  to  lessen  ; 
And  fretful  Envy  grins  in  vain 

The  poisoned  tooth  to  fasten. 

Ye  powers  of  Honour,  Love,  and  Truth, 

From  every  ill  defend  her  ; 
Inspire  the  highly-favoured  youth 

The  destinies  intend  her  : 
Still  fan  the  sweet  connubial  flame 

Responsive  in  each  bosom, 
And  bless  the  dear  parental  name 

With  many  a  filial  blossom. 


SCOTCH  DRINK. 

"  Gie  him  strong  drink,  until  he  wink, 
That 's  sinking  in  despair ; 
And  liquor  guid,  to  fire  his  bluid, 
That 's  prest  wi'  grief  and  care; 
There  let  him  boose,  and  deep  carouse, 

Wi'  bnmpers  flowing  o'er, 
Till  he  forgets  his  loves  or  debts, 
And  minds  his  griefs  no  more." 

Solomon's  Proverbs,  xxxi.  6,  7. 

r  ET  other  poets  raise  a  fracas 

'Bout  vines,  and  wines,  and  drucken  Bacchus, 
And  crabbit  names  and  stories  wrack  us, 

And  grate  our  lng  : 
T  sing  the  juice  Scotch  beare  can  mak  U9, 

In  glass  or  jug. 


b COT Cn  DRINK.  191 

O  thou,  my  Muse  !  guid  auld  Scotch  drink. 
Whether  through  whnplin'  worms  thou  jink, 
Or,  richly  brown,  ream  o'er  the  brink, 

In  glorious  faem, 
Inspire  me,  till  I  lisp  and  wink, 

To  sing  thy  name  ! 

Let  husky  wheat  the  haughs  adorn, 
And  aits  set  up  their  awnie  horn, 
And  peas  and  beans,  at  e'en  or  morn, 

Perfume  the  plain, 
Leeze  me  on  thee,  John  Barleycorn, 

Thou  king  o'  grain  ! 

On  thee  aft  Scotland  chows  her  cood, 
In  souple  scones,  the  wale  o'  food ! 
Or  tumblin'  in  the  boilin'  flood 

Wi'  kail  and  beef; 
But  when  thou  pours  thy  strong  heart's  blood, 

There  thou  shines  chief. 

Food  fills  the  wame,  and  keeps  us  livin' ; 
Though  life  's  a  gift  no  worth  receivin', 
When  heavy  dragged  wi'  pine  and  grievin* ; 

But,  oiled  by  thee, 
The  wheels  o'  life  gae  down-hill  scrievin', 

Wi'  rattlin'  glee. 

Thou  clears  the  head  o'  doited  Lear ; 
Thou  cheers  the  heart  o'  drooping  Care ; 
Thou  strings  the  nerves  o'  Labour  sair 
At 's  weary  toil ; 


192  SCOTCH  DRINK. 

Thou  even  brightens  dark  Despair 
Wi'  gloomy  smile. 

Aft  clad  in  massy  siller  weed, 
Wi'  gentles  thou  erects  thy  head  ; 
Yet  humbly  kind  in  time  o'  need, 

The  poor  man's  wine, 
His  wee  drap  parritch,  or  his  bread, 

Thou  kitchens  fine. 

Thou  art  the  life  o'  public  haunts  ; 

But  thee,  what  were  our  fairs  and  rants? 

Even  godly  meetings  o'  the  saunts, 

By  thee  inspired, 
When  gaping  they  besiege  the  tents, 

Are  doubly  fired. 

That  merry  night  we  get  the  corn  in, 
O  sweetly  then  thou  reams  the  horn  in  ! 
Or  reekin'  on  a  New-year  morning 

In  cog  or  bicker, 
And  just  a  wee  drap  sp'ritual  burn  in, 

And  gusty  sucker  I 

When  Vulcan  gies  his  bellows  breath, 
And  ploughmen  gather  wi'  their  graith, 
Oh  rare !  to  see  thee  fizz  and  freath 

I'  the  lugget  caup  ! 
Then  Burnewin  comes  on  like  death 

At  every  chap. 

Nae  mercy,  then,  for  airn  or  steel ; 
The  brawnie,  bainie,  ploughman  chiel, 


SCOTCH  DRINK.  193 

Brings  hard  owerhip,  wi'  sturdy  wheel, 
The  strong  forehammer, 

Till  block  and  studdie  ring  and  reel 
Wi'  dinsome  clamour. 

When  skirlin'  weanies  see  the  light, 

Thou  maks  the  gossips  clatter  bright, 

How  fumblin'  cuift  their  dearies  slight ;  « 

Wae  worth  the  name  ! 
Nae  howdie  gets  a  social  night, 

Or  plack  frae  them. 

When  neebors  anger  at  a  plea, 
And  just  as  wud  as  wud  can  be, 
How  easy  can  the  barley-bree 

Cement  the  quarrel  ! 
It 's  aye  the  cheapest  lawyer's  fee 

To  taste  the  barrel. 

Alake  !  that  e'er  my  Muse  has  reason 
To  wytc  her  countrymen  wi'  treason  ! 
But  monie  daily  weet  their  weason 

Wi'  liquors  nice, 
And  hardly  in  a  winter's  season 

E'er  spier  her  price. 

Wa?,  worth  that  brandy,  burning  trash  1 
Fell  source  o'  monie  a  pain  and  brash  ! 
Twiivs  monie  a  poor,  doylt,  drucken  hash, 

O'  half  his  days  ; 
And  sends,  beside,  auld  Scotland's  cash 

To  her  warst  faes. 


13 


194  SCOTCH  DRINK. 

Ye  Soots,  wha  wish  auld  Scotland  well, 
Ye  chief,  to  you  my  tale  I  tell : 
Poor  plackless  devils  like  mysel', 

It  sets  you  ill, 
Wi'  bitter,  dearthfu'  wines  to  mell, 

Or  foreign  gill. 

May  gravels  round  his  blather  wrench, 
And  gouts  torment  him  inch  by  inch, 
Wha  twists  his  gruntle  wi'  a  glunch 

0'  sour  disdain, 
Out  owre  a  glass  o'  whisky-punch 

Wi'  honest  men ! 

Oh  whisky !  soul  o'  plays  and  pranks  ! 
Accept  a  bardie's  gratefu'  thanks  ! 
When  wanting  thee,  what  tuneless  cranks 

Are  my  poor  verses  ! 
Thou  comes  —  they  rattle  :'  their  ranks 

At  ither's  ! 

Thee,  Ferintosh  !   oh  sadly  lost  ! 
Scotland  lament  frae  coast  to  coast ! 
Now  colic  grips,  and  barkin'  boast, 

May  kill  us  a' ; 
For  loyal  Forbes'  chartered  boast 

Is  ta'ei  awa ! 

Thae  curst  horse-leeches  o'  th'  Excise, 
Wha  mak  the  whisky-stells  their  prize  ! 
Haud  up  thy  ban',  Deil !  ance,  twice,  thrice 
There,  seize  the  blinkers  I 


EARNEST   CRT  AND  PRA7ER.         195 

And  bake  them  up  in  brunstane  pies 
For  poor  d — d  drinkers. 

Fortune  !  if  thou  '11  but  gie  me  still 
Hale  breeks,  a  scone,  and  whisky-gill, 
And  rowth  o'  rhyme  to  rave  at  will, 

Tak  a'  the  rest, 
And  deal 't  about  as  thy  blind  skill 

Directs  thee  best. 


THE  AUTHOR'S  EARNEST   CRY  AND  PRAYER 

TO   THE    SCOTCH    REPRESENTATIVES    IN    THE    HOUSE    OF 
COMMONS. 

"  Dearest  of  distillation  !  last  and  best ! 
How  art  thou  lost !  "  —  Parody  ox  Milton. 

"YTE  Irish  lords,  ye  knights  and  squires, 

Wha  represent  our  brughs  and  shires, 
And  doucely  manage  our  affairs 

In  parliament, 
To  you  a  simple  Bardie's  prayers 

Are  humbly  sent. 

Alas  !  my  roopit  Muse  is  hearse  ! 

Your  honours'  heart  wi'  grief  't  wad  pierce, 

To  see  her  sittin'  on  her 

Low  i'  the  dust, 
And  screechin'  out  prosaic  verse, 

And  like  to  burst ! 

Tell  them  wha  hae  the  chief  direction, 
Scotland  and  me  's  in  great  affliction. 


196        EARNEST  CRY  AND  PRATER. 

E'er  sin'  they  laid  that  curst  restriction 

On  aqua  vita? ; 
And  rouse  them  up  to  strong  conviction, 

And  move  their  pity. 

Stand  forth,  and  tell  yon  Premier  youth, 

The  honest,  open,  naked  truth  : 

Tell  him  o'  mine  and  Scotland's  drouth, 

His  servants  humble  : 
The  muckle  devil  blaw  ye  south, 

If  ye  dissemble. 

Does  ony  great  man  glunch  and  gloom  ? 
Speak  out,  and  never  fash  your  thoom  ! 
Let  posts  and  pensions  sink  or  soom 

Wi'  them  wha  grant  'em  • 
If  honestly  they  canna  come, 

Far  better  want  'em. 

In  gath'rin'  votes  you  were  na  slack ; 
Now  stand  as  tightly  by  your  tack  ; 
Ne'er  claw  your  lug,  and  fidge  your  back, 

And  hum  and  haw  ; 
But  raise  your  arm,  and  tell  your  crack, 

Before  them  a'. 

Paint  Scotland  greeting  owre  her  thrissle, 
Her  mutchkin  stoup  as  toom  's  a  whistle 
And  d — d  exciseman  in  a  bussle, 

Seizin'  a  stell, 
Triumphant  crush  in  't  like  a  mussel 

Or  lampit  shell. 


EARNEST   CRY  AND   PRAYER.         19*3 

Then  on  the  tither  hand  present  her, 
A  blackguard  smuggler,  right  behint  her, 
And  cheek-for-chow,  a  chulfie  vintner 

Colleaguing  join, 
Picking  her  pouch  as  bare  as  winter 

Of  a'  kind  coin. 

Is  there,  that  bears  the  name  o'  Scot, 
But  feels  his  heart's  bluid  rising  hot, 
To  see  his  poor  auld  mither's  pot 

Thus  dung  in  staves, 
And  plundered  o'  her  hindmost  groat 

By  gallows  knaves  ? 

Alas  !  I  'in  but  a  nameless  wight, 

Trod  i'  the  mire  out  o'  sight ! 

But  could  I  like  Montgomeries  fight, 

Or  gab  like  Boswell, 
There 's  some  sark-necks  I  wad  draw  tight, 

And  tie  some  hose  well. 

God  bless  your  honours,  can  ye  see  't, 
The  kind,  auld,  cantie  carlin  greet, 
And  no  get  warmly  to  your  feet, 

And  gar  them  hear  it, 
And  tell  them  with  a  patriot  heat, 

Ye  winna  bear  it  ? 

Some  o'  you  nicely  ken  the  laws, 
To  round  the  period  and  pause, 
And  wi'  rhetoric  clause  on  clause 

To  mak  harangues  ;  — ■ 


198         EARNEST  CRY  AND  PRAYER. 

Then  echo  through  Saint  Stephen's  wa's 
Auld  Scotland's  wrangs  ! 

Dempster,  a  true  blue  Scot  I  'se  warran' ; 
Thee,  aith-detesting,  chaste  Kilkerran  ; 
And  that  glib-gabbet  Highland  baron, 

The  Laird  o'  Graham  ; 
And  ane,  a  chap  that 's  d — d  auldfarran, 

Dundas  his  name. 

Erskine,  a  spunkie  Norland  billie  ; 
True  Campbells,  Frederick  and  Hay ; 
And  Livingstone,  the  bauld  Sir  Willie ; 

And  mony  ithers, 
Whom  auld  Demosthenes  or  Tully 

Might  own  for  brithers. 

See,  sodger  Hugh,  my  watchman  stented, 

If  bardies  e'er  are  represented  ; 

I  ken  if  that  your  sword  were  wanted, 

Ye  'd  lend  a  hand, 
But  when  there 's  ought  to  say  anent  it 

Ye  're  at  a  stand.1 

Arouse,  my  boys  !  exert  your  mettie, 
To  get  auld  Scotland  back  her  kettle ; 
Or  faith,  I  '11  wad  my  new  plough-pettle, 

Ye  '11  see  't  or  lang, 
She  '11  teach  you  wi'  a  reekin'  whittle, 

Anither  saner. 


1  This  stanza,  alluding  to  the  imperfect  elocution  of  the  gallant 
Montgomery  of  Coiisfield,  was  omitted  from  the  poem  by  the 
author 


EARNEST   CRY  AND    PRAYER.        199 

This  while  she  's  been  in  crankous  mood 
Her  lost  militia  fired  her  bluid  ; 
(Deil  na  they  never  mair  do  guid, 

Played  her  that  pliskic  ! ) 
And  now  she 's  like  to  rin  red-wud 

About  her  whisky. 

And  L —  !  if  ance  they  pit  her  till  % 
Her  tartan  petticoat  she  '11  kilt, 
And  durk  and  pistol  at  her  belt, 

She  '11  tak  the  streets, 
And  rin  her  whittle  to  the  hilt 

I'  th'  first  she  meets ! 

For  G —  sake,  sirs !  then  speak  her  fair, 
And  straik  her  cannie  wi'  the  hair, 
And  to  the  muekle  house  repair, 

Wi'  instant  speed, 
And  strive,  wi'  a'  your  wit  and  lear, 

To  get  remead. 

Yon  ill-tongued  tinkler,  Charlie  Fox, 
May  taunt  you  wi'  his  jeers  and  mocks  ; 
But  gie  him  't  het,  my  hearty  cocks  ! 

E'en  cow  the  cadie  ! 
And  send  him  to  his  dicing-box 

And  sportin'  lady. 

Tell  yon  guid  bluid  o'  auhl  Boeonnocks, 
I'll  be  his  debt  twa  mashhun  bannocks, 
And  drink  his  health  in  auld  Nanse  Tinnock's 

Nine  times  a  week, 
If  he  some  scheme,  like  tea  and  winnocks, 

Wad  kindly  seek. 


200         EARNEST   CRY  AND   PRAYER 

Could  he  some  commutation  broach, 
I  '11  pledge  my  aith  in  guid  braid  Scotc- 
He  need  na  fear  their  foul  reproach, 

Nor  erudition, 
Yon  mixtie-maxtie  queer  hotch-potch, 

The  Coalition. 

Auld  Scotland  has  a  raucle  tongue  ; 
She's  just  a  devil  wi'  a  rung ; 
And  if  she  promise  auld  or  young 

To  tak  their  part, 
Though  by  the  neck  she  should  be  strung, 

She'll  no  desert. 

And  now,  ye  chosen  Five-and-Forty, 
May  still  your  anther's  heart  support  ye 
Then,  though  a  minister  grow  dorty, 

And  kick  your  place, 
Ye  '11  snap  your  fingers  poor  and  hearty, 

Before  his  face. 

God  bless  your  honours  a'  your  days, 
Wi'  sowps  o'  kail  and  brats  o'  claise, 
In  spite  o'  a'  the  thievish  kaes 

That  haunt  St.  Jamie's  ! 
Your  humble  Poet  sings  and  prays, 

While  Rab  his  name  is. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

Let  half-starved  slaves  in  warmer  skies 
See  future  wines,  rich  clust'ring,  rise $ 


EARNEST   CRY  AND   PRAYER.        201 

Heir  lot  auld  Scotland  ne'er  envies, 

But  blithe  and  frisky, 
She  eyes  her  freeborn,  martial  boys 

Tak  alT  their  whisky. 

What  though  their  Phoebus  kinder  warms, 
While  fragrance  blooms  and  beauty  charms ; 
When  wretches  range,  in  famished  swarms, 

The  scented  groves, 
Or  hounded  forth,  dishonour  arms 

In  hungry  droves. 

Their  gun  's  a  burden  on  their  shouther ; 
They  downa  bide  the  stink  o'  powther ; 
Their  bauldest  thought 's  a  hank'ring  swither 

To  stan'  or  rin, 
Till  skelp  —  a  shot  —  they  're  aff,  a'thr'owther, 

To  save  their  skin. 

But  bring  a  Scotchman  frae  his  hill, 
Clap  in  his  cheek  a  Highland  gill, 
Say  such  is  royal  George's  will, 

And  there 's  the  foe,  — 
He  has  nae  thought,  but  how  to  kill 

Twa  at  a  blow. 

Nae  cauld,  faint-hearted  doubtings  tease  him 
Death  comes  —  wi'  fearless  eye  he  sees  him ; 
Wi'  bluidy  ban'  a  welcome  gies  him ; 

And  when  he  fa's, 
His  latest  draught  o'  breath  in'  lea'es  him 

In  faint  huzzas ! 


202      FARMER'S  NEW-YEAR  ADDRESS. 

Sages  their  solemn  een  may  steek, 
And  raise  a  philosophic  reek, 
And  physically  causes  seek, 

In  clime  and  season  ; 
But  tell  me  whisky's  name  in  Greek, 

T'll  tell  the  reason. 

Scotland,  my  auld,  respected  mither ! 
Though  whiles  ye  moistify  your  leather, 
Till  whare  ye  sit,  on  craps  o'  heather 

Ye  tine  your  dam  ; 
Freedom  and  whisky  gang  thegither  !  — 

Tak  aff  your  dram  ! 


THE   AULD    FARMER'S    NEW -YEAR    MORNING 
SALUTATION  TO  HIS  AULD  MARE  MAGGIE, 

ON    GIVING    HER    THE   ACCUSTOMED    RIPP   OF   CORN,  TO 
HANSEL   IN  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

A    GUID  New-year  I  wish  thee,  Maggie  ! 
Hae,  there 's  a  ripp  to  thy  auld  baggie : 
Though  thou  's  howe-backit,  now,  and  knaggie, 

I  've  seen  the  day 
Thou  could  hae  gaen  like  ony  staggie 
Oat-owre  the  lay. 

Though  now  thou  's  dowie,  stiff,  and  crazy, 
And  thy  auld  hide  's  as  white  's  a  daisy, 
I  've  seen  thee  dappl't,  sleek,  and  glaizie, 

A  bonny  gray  : 
He  should  been  tight  that  daur't  to  raize  thee 

Ance  in  a  day. 


FARMER'S  NEW  YEAR  ADDRESS.      20-5 

Thou  ance  was  i'  the  foremost  rank, 
A  filly  buirdly,  steeve,  and  swank, 
And  set  weel  down  a  shapely  shank 

As  e'er  tread  yird  ; 
And  could  hae  flown  out-owre  a  stank 

Like  ony  bird. 

It 's  now  some  nlne-and-twenty  year, 
Sin'  thou  was  my  guid-fhther's  meare  ; 
He  gied  me  thee,  o'  tocher  clear, 

And  fifty  mark  ; 
Though  it  was  sma',  't  was  weel-won  gear, 

And  thou  was  stark. 

When  first  I  gaed  to  woo  my  Jemv,, 
Ye  then  was  trottin'  wi'  your  minnie  ; 
Though  ye  was  trickie,  slee,  and  funnie, 

Ye  ne'er  was  donsie  : 
But  namely,  tawie,  quiet,  and  cannie, 

And  unco  sonsie. 

That  day  ye  pranced  wi'  muckle  pride, 
When  ye  bure  hame  my  bonny  bride  : 
And  sweet  and  gracefu'  she  did  ride, 

Wi'  maiden  air  ! 
Kyle-Stewart  I  could  bragged  wide, 

For  sic  a  pair. 

Though  now  ye  dow  but  hoyte  and  hobble, 
And  wintle  like  a  saumont-coble, 
That  day  ye  was  a  jinker  noble, 
For  heels  and  win' ! 


204       FARMERS  NEW- YEAR   ADDRESS. 

And  ran  them  till  they  a'  did  wauble 
Far,  far  behin' ! 

When  thou  and  I  were  young  and  skeigh, 

And  stable-meals  at  fairs  were  dreigh, 

How  thou  would  prance,  and  snore,  and  skreigh 

And  tak  the  road  ! 
Town's  bodies  ran,  and  stood  abeigh, 

And  ca't  thee  mad. 

When  thou  was  corn't,  and  I  was  mellow, 
We  took  the  road  aye  like  a  swallow : 
At  brooses  thou  had  ne'er  a  fellow 

For  pith  and  speed ; 
But  every  tail  thou  pay't  them  hollow, 

Whare'er  thou  gaed. 

The  sma'  droop-rumpl't,  hunter  cattle, 
Might  aiblins  waur't  thee  for  a  brattle, 
But  sax  Scotch  miles  thou  try't  their  mettle, 

And  gar't  them  whaizle  : 
Nae  whip  nor  spur,  but  just  a  wattle 

O'  saugh  or  hazle. 

Thou  was  a  noble  fittie-lan', 

As  e'er  in  tug  or  tow  was  drawn  ! 

Aft  thee  and  I,  in  aught  hours'  gaun, 

In  guid  March  weather, 
Hae  turned  sax  rood  beside  our  han' 

For  days  thegither. 

Thou  never  braindg't,  and  fetch't,  and  fliskit, 
But  thy  auld  tail  thou  wad  hae  whisket, 


FARMER'S  NEW- YEAR  ADDRESS.     205 

And  spread  abreed  thy  weel-filled  brisket 

Wi'  pith  and  power, 
Till  spritty  knowes  wad  rair't  and  risket, 

And  slypet  owre. 

When  frosts  lay  lang,  and  snaws  were  deepj 
And  threatened  labour  back  to  keep, 
I  gied  thy  cog  a  wee  bit  heap 

Aboon  the  timmer ; 
I  kenn'd  my  Maggie  wad  na  sleep 

For  that,  or  simmer. 

In  cart  or  car  thou  never  reestit ; 

The  stayest  brae  thou  wad  hae  fac't  it ; 

Thou  never  lap,  and  sten't,  and  breastit, 

Then  stood  to  blaw  ; 
But  just  thy  step  a  wee  thing  hastit, 

Thou  snoov't  awa\ 

My  pleugh  is  now  thy  bairn-time  a', 
Four  gallant  brutes  as  e'er  did  draw ; 
Forbye  sax  mae  I  've  sell't  awa', 

That  thou  hast  nurst : 
They  drew  me  thretteen  pund  and  twa, 

The  very  warst. 

Monie  a  sair  daurk  we  twa  hae  wrought, 
And  wi'  the  weary  warl'  fought ; 
And  monie  an  anxious  day  I  thought 

We  wad  be  beat ; 
Yet  here  to  crazy  age  we  're  brought, 

Wi'  something  yet 


206  THE  TWA  DOGS. 

And  think  na,  my  auld  trusty  servan', 
That  now  perhaps  thou 's  less  deserving 
And  thy  auld  days  may  end  in  starvin'; 

For  my  last  fow, 
A  heapit  stimpart,  1 11  reserve  ane 

Laid  by  for  you. 

We  've  worn  to  crazy  years  thegither 
We  '11  toyte  about  wi'  ane  anither  ; 
Wi'  tentie  care  I  '11  flit  thy  tether, 

To  some  hain'd  rig, 
Where  ya  may  nobly  rax  your  leather, 

Wi'  sma'  fatigue. 


THE  TWA  DOGS: 

A  TALE. 

»rp  WAS  in  that  place  o'  Scotland's  isle, 

That  bears  the  name  o'  Auld  King  Coil, 
Upon  a  bonny  day  in  June, 
When  wearing  through  the  afternoon, 
Twa  dogs  that  were  na  thrang  at  hame, 
Forgathered  a-ice  upon  a  time 

The  first  I  '11  name,  they  ca'd  him  Cassar, 
Was  keepit  for  his  honour's  pleasure  ; 
His  hair,  his  size,  his  mouth,  his  lugs, 
Shewed  he  was  nane  o'  Scotland's  dogs, 
But  whalpit  some  place  far  abroad, 
Whare  sailors  gang  to  fish  for  cod. 


THE  TWA  DOGS.  207 

His  locked,  lettered,  braw  brass-collar, 
Shewed  him  the  gentleman  and  scholar ; 
But  though  he  was  o'  high  degree, 
The  fient  a  pride  —  nae  pride  had  he  ; 
But  wad  hae  spent  an  hour  caressin', 
E'en  wi'  a  tinkler-gipsy's  messan. 
At  kirk  or  market,  mill  or  smiddie, 
Nae  tawted  tyke,  though  e'er  sac  duddie, 
But  he  wad  stan't,  as  glad  to  see  him, 
And  stroan't  on  stanes  and  hillocks  wi'  him. 

The  tither  was  a  ploughman's  collie, 

A  rhyming,  ranting,  roving  billie, 

Wha  for  his  friend  and  comrade  had  him, 

And  in  his  freaks  had  Luath  ca'd  him, 

After  some  dog  in  Highland  sang, 

Was  made  lang  syne  —  Lord  knows  how  lang ! 

He  was  a  gash  and  faithful  tyke, 
As  ever  lap  a  sheugh  or  dike. 
His  honest,  sonsie,  baws'nt  face, 
Aye  gat  him  friends  in  ilka  place. 
His  breast  was  white,  his  touzie  back 
Weel  clad  wi'  coat  o'  glossy  black  ; 
His  gaucy  tail,  wi'  upward  curl, 
Hung  o'er  his  hurdies  wi'  a  swirl. 

Nae  doubt  but  they  were  fain  o'  ither, 
And  unco  pack  and  thick  thegither ; 
Wi'  social  nose  whyles  snuffed  and  snowkit, 
Whyles  mice  and  moudieworts  they  howkit, 
Whyles  scoured  awa'  in  lang  excursion, 
And  worried  ither  in  diversion  ; 


208  THE   TWA  DOGS. 

Until  wi'  daffin'  weary  grown, 
Upon  a  knowe  they  sat  them  down, 
And  there  began  a  lang  digression 
About  the  lords  o'  the  creation. 


CjESAK. 

I  've  aften  wondered,  honest  Luath, 
What  sort  o'  Ufe  poor  dogs  like  you  have 
And  when  the  gentry's  Ufe  I  saw, 
What  way  poor  bodies  lived  ava. 

Our  laird  gets  in  his  racked  rente, 

His  coals,  his  kain,  and  a'  his  stents ; 

He  rises  when  he  likes  himsel' ; 

His  flunkies  answer  at  the  bell ; 

He  ca's  his  coach,  he  ca's  his  horse ; 

He  draws  a  bonny  silken  purse 

As  lang 's  my  tail,  whare,  through  the  steeks, 

The  yellow  lettered  Geordie  keeks. 

Frae  morn  to  e'en  it 's  nought  but  toiling, 
At  baking,  loasting,  frying,  boiling  ; 
And  though  the  gentry  first  are  stechin, 
Yet  e'en  the  ha'  folk  fill  their  pechan 
Wi'  sauce,  ragouts,  and  sic-like  trashtrie, 
That 's  little  short  o'  downright  wastrie 
Our  whipper-in,  wee  blastit  wonner, 
Poor  worthless  elf,  it  eats  a  dinner 
Better  than  ony  tenant  man 
His  honour  has  in  a'  the  Ian' ; 
And  what  poor  cot-folk  pit  their  painch  in, 
I  own  it 's  past  my  comprehension. 


THE  TWA  D0G8.  209 


Trowth,  Caesar,  whyles  they  're  fash't  enough ; 

A  cotter  howkin'  in  a  sheugh, 

AVi'  dirty  stanes  biggin'  a  dike, 

Barring  a  quarry,  and  sic-like  : 

Himself,  a  wife,  he  thus  sustains, 

A  smytrie  o'  wee  duddie  weans, 

And  nought  but  his  han'  darg,  to  keep 

Them  right  and  tight  in  thack  and  rape. 

And  when  they  meet  wi'  sair  disasters, 
Like  loss  o'  health,  or  want  o'  masters, 
Ye  maist  wad  think,  a  wee  touch  langer, 
And  they  maun  starve  o'  cauld  and  hunger ; 
But  how  it  comes,  I  never  kenn'd  yet, 
They  're  maistly  wonderfu'  contented  : 
And  buirdly  chiels,  and  clever  hizzies, 
Are  bred  in  sic  a  way  as  this  is. 


But  then  to  see  how  ye  're  negleckit, 
How  huffed,  and  cuffed,  and  disrespeckit ! 
L — ,  man,  our  gentry  care  as  little 
For  delvers,  ditchers,  and  sic  cattle  ; 
They  gang  as  saucy  by  poor  folk, 
As  I  wad  by  a  stinkin'  brock. 
I  've  noticed,  on  our  Laird's  court-day, 
And  monie  a  time  my  heart 's  been  wae, 
Poor  tenant  bodies,  scant  o'  cash, 
How  they  maun  thole  a  factor's  snash  : 
He  '11  stamp  and  threaten,  curse  and  swear, 
VOL.  i.  U 


210  THE  TWA  DOGS. 

He  '11  apprehend  them,  poind  their  gear ; 
While  they  maun  stan',  wi'  aspect  humble, 
And  hear  it  a',  and  fear  and  tremble  ! 

I  see  how  folk  live  that  hae  riches  ; 
But  surely  poor  folk  maun  be  wretches ! 


They  're  no  sae  wretched 's  ane  wad  think  ; 
Though  constantly  on  poortith's  brink  : 
They  're  sae  accustomed  wi'  the  sight, 
The  view  o"t  gies  them  little  fright. 
Then  chance  and  fortune  are  sae  guided, 
They  're  aye  in  less  or  mair  provided  ; 
And  though  fatigued  wi'  close  employment, 
A  blink  o'  rest 's  a  sweet  enjoyment. 

The  dearest  comfort  o'  their  lives, 
Their  grushie  weans  and  faithfu'  wives  ; 
The  prattling  things  are  just  their  pride, 
That  sweetens  a'  their  fireside  ; 
And  whyles  twalpennie  worth  o'  nappy 
Can  mak  the  bodies  unco  happy. 
They  lay  aside  their  private  cares, 
To  mind  the  Kirk  and  State  affairs  : 
They  '11  talk  o'  patronage  and  priests, 
Wi'  kindling  fury  in  their  breasts, 
Or  tell  what  new  taxation  's  comin', 
And  ferlie  at  the  folk  in  Lon'on. 

As  bleak-faced  Hallowmas  returns, 
They  get  the  jovial,  ranting  kirns, 


THE    TWA   DOGS.  211 

When  rural  life  o'  eveiy  station 
Unite  in  common  recreation  ; 
Love  blinks,  "Wit  slaps,  and  social  Mirth 
Forgets  there's  Care  upo'  the  earth. 

That  merry  day  the  year  begins, 
They  bar  the  door  on  frosty  win's  ; 
The  nappy  reeks  wi'  mantling  ream, 
And  sheds  a  heart-inspiring  steam  : 
The  luntin'  pipe,  and  sneeshin-mill, 
Are  handed  round  wi'  right  guidwill ; 
The  cantie  auld  folks  crackin'  crouse, 
The  young  anes  rantin'  through  the  house 
My  heart  has  been  sae  fain  to  see  them, 
That  I  for  joy  hae  barkit  wi'  them. 

Still  it 's  owre  true  that  ye  hae  said, 
Sic  game  is  now  owre  aften  played. 
There  's  monie  a  creditable  stock 
O'  decent,  honest,  fawsont  fo'k 
Are  riven  out  baith  root  and  branch, 
Some  rascal's  pridefu'  greed  to  quench. 
Wha  thinks  to  knit  himsel'  the  faster 
In  favour  wi'  some  gentle  master, 
Wha  aiblins  thrang  a  parliamentin', 
For  Britain's  guid  his  saul  indentin' 


Haith,  lad,  ye  little  ken  about  it ; 
For  Britain's  guid  !  guid  faith,  I  doubt  it 
Say  rather,  gauu  as  Premiers  lead  him, 
And  saying  Ay  or  No  's  they  bid  him  : 


212  THF.    TWA  DOGS. 

At  operas  and  plays  parading, 
Mortgaging,  gambling,  masquerading 
Or  maybe,  ia  a  frolic  daft, 
To  Hague  or  Calais  takes  a  waft, 
To  mak  a  tour  and  tak  a  whirl, 
To  learn  bon  ton,  and  see  the  worl'. 

There,  at  Vienna  or  Versailles, 
He  rives  his  father's  auld  entails  ; 
Or  by  Madrid  he  takes  the  route, 
To  thrum  guitars,  and  fecht  wi'  nowte  ; 
Or  down  Italian  vista  startles, 

"W hunting  amang  groves  o'  myrtles ; 

Then  bouses  drumly  German  water, 
To  mak  himsel'  look  fair  and  fatter, 
And  clear  the  consequential  sorrows, 
Love-gifts  of  Carnival  signoras. 

For  Britain's  guid  !  —  for  her  destruction  ! 
Wi'  dissipation,  feud,  and  faction. 

LUATH. 

Hech,  man  !  dear  sire  !  is  that  the  gate 
They  waste  sae  mony  a  braw  estate  ! 
Are  we  sae  fbughten  and  harassed 
For  gear  to  gang  that  gate  at  last ! 

Oh  would  they  stay  aback  frae  courts, 
And  please  themsel's  wi'  country  sports, 
It  wad  for  every  ane  be  better, 
The  Laird,  the  Tenant,  and  the  Cotter ) 
For  thae  frank,  rantin',  ramblin'  billies, 


THE    TWA   DOGS.  213 

Fient  Laet  o'  them  's  ill-hearted  fellows ; 
Except  for  breakin'  o'  their  timmer, 
Or  speakin'  lightly  o'  their  limmer, 
Or  shootin'  o'  a  hare  or  moorcock, 
The  ne'er  a  bit  they  're  ill  to  poor  folk. 

But  will  ye  tell  me,  Master  Csesar, 
Sure  great  folk's  life 's  a  life  o'  pleasure  ? 
Nae  cauld  or  hunger  e'er  can  steer  them, 
The  very  thought  o'  't  needna  fear  them. 


L — ,  man,  were  ye  but  whyles  whare  I  am, 
The  gentles  ye  wad  ne'er  envy  'em. 
It 's  true  they  needna  starve  or  sweat, 
Through  winter's  cauld,  or  simmer's  heat ; 
They  've  nae  sair  wark  to  craze  their  banes, 
And  fill  auld  age  wi'  grips  and  granes  ; 
But  human  bodies  are  sic  fools, 
For  a'  their  colleges  and  schools, 
That  when  nae  real  ills  perplex  them, 
They  mak  enow  themsel's  to  vex  them ; 
And  aye  the  less  they  hae  to  sturt  them, 
In  like  proportion  less  will  hurt  them. 

A  country  fellow  at  the  pleugh, 

His  acre  's  tilled,  he  's  right  eneugh  ; 

A  country  girl  at  her  wheel, 

Her  dizzen  's  done,  she  's  unco  weel : 

But  Gentlemen,  and  Ladies  warst, 

Wi'  even-down  want  o'  wark  are  curst. 

They  loiter,  lounging,  lark,  and  lazy  ; 


214  THE   TWA    DOGS. 

Though  deil  haet  ails  them,  yet  uneasy ; 
Their  days  insipid,  dull,  and  tasteless ; 
Their  nights  unquiet,  lang,  and  restless. 

And  e'en  their  spcrts,  their  balls  and  races, 
Their  galloping  through  public  places, 
There 's  sic  parade,  sic  pomp  and  art, 
The  joy  can  scarcely  reach  the  heart. 

The  men  cast  out  in  party  matches, 

Then  sowther  a'  in  deep  debauches  ; 

Ae  night  they  're  mad  wi'  drink  and  w — ing, 

Niest  day  their  life  is  past  enduring. 

The  Ladies  arm-in-arm  in  clusters, 
As  great  and  gracious  a'  as  sisters ; 
But  hear  their  absent  thoughts  o'  ither, 
They  're  a'  run  deils  and  jads  thegither. 
Whyles  o'er  the  wee  bit  cup  and  platie, 
They  sip  the  scandal  potion  pretty  ; 
Or  lee-lang  nights,  wi'  crabbit  leuks, 
Pore  owre  the  devil's  pictured  beuks ; 
Staka  on  a  chance  a  farmer's  stackyard, 
And  cheat  like  ony  unhanged  blackguard. 

There 's  some  exception,  man  and  woman ; 
But  this  is  Gentry's  life  in  common. 

By  this,  the  sun  was  out  o'  sight, 
And  darker  gloaming  brought  the  night : 
The  bum-clock  hummed  wi'  lazy  drone  ; 
The  kye  stood  rowtin'  i'  the  loan  ; 
When  up  they  gat,  and  shook  their  lugs, 


TO  A  LOUSE.  215 

Rejoiced  they  w?re  na  men,  but  dogs ; 
And  each  took  aff  his  several  way, 
Resolved  to  meet  some  ither  day. 


TO  A   LOUSE, 

ON   SEEING   ONE   ON   A    LAOY'S   BONNET   AT   CHURCH. 

TTA  !  where  ye  gaun,  ye  crawlin'  ferlie  ? 
-*"*-  Your  impudence  protects  you  sairly  : 
I  canna  say  but  ye  strunt  rarely 

Owre  gauze  and  lace  ; 
Though  faith,  I  fear  ye  dine  but  sparely 

On  sic  a  place. 

Ye  ugly,  creepin',  blastit  wonner, 
Detested,  shunned,  by  saunt  and  sinner, 
How  dare  you  set  your  fit  upon  her, 

Sac  fine  a  lady  ? 
Gae  somewhere  else,  and  seek  your  dinner 

On  some  poor  body. 

Swith,  in  some  beggar's  haftet  squattle ; 

There  ye  may  creep,  and  sprawl,  and  sprattle 
Wi'  ither  kindred,  jumping  cattle, 

In  shoals  and  nations  ; 
"Whare  horn  nor  bane  ne'er  daur  unsettle 

Your  thick  plantations. 

Now  baud  you  there,  ye  're  out  o'  sight, 
Below  the  fatt'rels,  snug  and  tight ; 


216  TO  A  LOUSE. 

Na,  faith  ye  yet !  ye  '11  no  be  right 
Till  ye  've  got  on  it,      % 

The  very  tapmost,  towering  height 
O'  Miss's  bonnet. 

My  sooth  !  right  bauld  ye  set  your  nose  out. 
As  plump  and  gray  as  ony  grozet ; 
Oh  for  some  rank,  mercurial  rozet, 

Or  fell,  red  smeddum  ! 
I  'd  gie  you  sic  a  hearty  doze  o'  't, 

Wad  dress  your  droddum  1 

I  wad  na  been  surprised  to  spy 
You  on  an  auld  wife's  flannen  toy ; 
Or  aiblins  some  bit  duddie  boy, 

On 's  wyliecoat ; 
But  Miss's  fine  Lunardi !  fie  ! 

How  daur  ye  do 't  ? 

Oh,  Jenny,  dinna  toss  your  head, 
And  set  your  beauties  a'  abread ! 
Ye  little  ken  what  cursed  speed 

The  blastie  's  makin' ! 
Thae  winks  and  finger-ends,  I  dread, 

Are  notice  takin' ! 

Oh  wad  some  power  the  giftie  gie  us 
To  see  oursel's  as  others  see  us  ! 
It  wad  frae  monie  a  blunder  free  us, 

And  foolish  notion  : 
What  airs  in  dress  and  gait  wad  lea'e  us, 

And  even  devotion ! 


THE   ORDINATION.  217 


THE    ORDINATION. 

"For  sense  they  little  owe  to  frugal  Heaven  — 
To  please  the  mob,  they  hide  the  little  given." 

T7~ILMA11N0CK  wabsters,  fidge  and  claw, 

And  pour  your  creeshie  nations  ; 
And  ye  wha  leather  rax  and  draw, 

O'  a'  denominations, 
Swith  to  the  Laigh  Kirk,  ane  an  a', 
And  there  tak  up  your  stations  ; 
Then  aft"  to  Begbie's  in  a  raw, 
And  pour  divine  libations 
For  joy  this  day. 

Curst  Common  Sense,  that  imp  o'  h — , 

Cam  in  wi'  Maggie  Lauder  ; 
But  Oliphant  aft  made  her  yell, 

And  Russell  sair  misca'd  her; 
This  day  Mackinlay  taks  the  flail, 

And  he  's  the  boy  will  blaud  her  ! 
He  '11  clap  a  shangan  on  her  tail, 

And  set  the  bairns  to  daud  her 
Wi'  dirt  this  day. 

Mak  haste  and  turn  King  David  owre, 

And  lilt  wi'  holy  clangor  ; 
O'  double  verse  come  gie  us  four, 

And  skirl  up  the  Bangor  : 
This  day  the  Kirk  kicks  up  a  stoure, 

Nae  mair  the  knaves  shall  wrang  her, 
For  Hen*y  is  in  her  power, 


218  777/;   ORDINATION. 

And  gloriously  she  '11  whang  her 
Wi'  pith  this  day. 

Come,  let  a  proper  text  be  read, 

And  touch  it  aff  wi'  vigour, 
How  graceless  Ham  leugh  at  his  dad, 

Which  made  Canaan  a  nigger ; 
Or  Phinehas  drove  the  murdering  blade, 

With  w —  abhorring  rigour  ; 
Or  Zipporah,  the  scauldin'  jad, 
Was  like  a  bluidy  tiger 

I'  the  inn  that  day. 

There,  try  his  mettle  on  the  creed, 

And  bind  him  down  wi'  caution, 
That  stipend  is  a  carnal  weed 

He  taks  but  for  the  fashion  ; 
And  gie  him  owre  the  flock  to  feed, 

And  punish  each  transgression  ; 
Especial,  rams  that  cross  the  breed, 

Gie  them  sufficient  threshin' 

Spare  them  nae  day. 

Now,  auld  Kilmarnock,  cock  thy  tail, 

And  toss  thy  horns  fu'  canty  ; 
Nae  mair  thou  '11  rowte  out-owre  the  dale, 

Because  thy  pasture 's  scanty  ; 
For  lapfu's  large  o'  gospel  kail 

Shall  fill  thy  crib  in  pier  ty, 
And  runts  o'  grace  the  pick  and  wale, 

No  gien  by  way  o'  dainty, 
But  ilka  day. 


THE   ORDINATION.  219 

Nae  mair  by  Babel's  streams  we  '11  weep, 

To  think  upon  our  Zion  ; 
And  hing  our  fiddles  up  to  sleep, 

Like  baby-clouts  a-dryin' : 
Come,  screw  the  pegs,  wi'  tunefir  cheep, 

And  o'er  the  thairms  be  tryin' ; 
Oh,  rare  !  to  sec  our  elbucks  wheep, 

And  a'  like  lamb-tails  flyin' 
Fu'  fast  this  day. 

Lang,  Patronage,  wi'  rod  o'  aim, 

Has  shored  the  Kirk's  undoin', 
As  lately  Fenwick,  sair  forfairn, 

Has  proven  to  its  ruin  : 
Our  patron,  honest  man  !  Glencairn, 

He  saw  mischief  was  brewin', 
And  like  a  godly  elect  bairn 

He  's  waled  us  out  a  true  ane, 
And  sound  this  day. 

Now,  Robertson,  harangue  nae  mair, 

But  steek  your  gab  for  ever ; 
Or  try  the  wicked  town  of  Ayr, 

For  there  they  11  think  you  clever 
Or,  nae  reflection  on  your  lear, 

Ye  may  commence  a  shaver ; 
Or  to  the  Netherton  repair, 

And  turn  a  carpet-weaver 

AH'-hand  this  day. 

Mutric  and  you  were  just  a  match, 

We  never  had  sic  twa  drones  : 
Auld  Homie  lid  the  Laigh  Kirk  watch, 


220  THE   ORDINATION. 

Just  like  a  winkin'  baudrons  : 
And  aye  lie  catched  the  tither  wretch, 

To  fry  them  in  his  caudrons  : 
But  now  his  honour  maun  detach, 

Wi'  a'  his  brimstone  squadrons, 
Fast,  fast  this  day. 

See,  see  auld  Orthodoxy's  faes 

She  's  swingein  through  the  city  : 
Hark  how  the  nine-tailed  cat  she  plays  i 

I  vow  it 's  unco  pretty  : 
There  Learning,  with  his  Greekish  face, 

Grunts  out  some  Latin  ditty, 
And  Common  Sense  is  gaun,  she  says, 

To  mak  to  Jamie  Beattie 

Her  plaint  this  day 

But  there 's  Morality  himseP 

Embracing  all  opinions  ; 
Hear  how  he  gies  the  tither  yell, 

Between  his  twa  companions  ; 
See  how  he  peels  the  skin  and  fell, 

As  ane  were  peclin'  onions  ! 
Now  there  —  they  're  packed  aff  to  h — j 

And  banished  our  dominions 

Henceforth  this  day. 

Oh  happy  day  !  rejoice,  rejoice  ! 

Come  bouse  about  the  porter 
Morality's  demure  decoys 

Shall  here  nae  mair  find  quarter: 
Mackinlay,  Russell,  are  the  boys 

That  heresy  can  torture : 


ADDRESS    TO   THE   UNCO   GUID.       221 

They  11  gie  her  on  a  rape  a  hoyse, 
And  cowe  her  measure  shorter 

By  th'  head  some  day. 

Come,  bring  the  tither  mutchkin  in, 

And  here  's  for  a  conclusion  :  — 
To  every  New  Light  mother's  son, 

From  this  time  forth,  Confusion  ! 
If  mair  they  deave  us  wi'  their  din, 

Or  Patronage  intrusion, 
We  '11  light  a  spunk,  and  every  skin 

We'll  rin  them  aff  in  fusion, 
Like  oil  some  day. 


AN    ADDRESS  TO  THE    UNCO  GUID,   OR  THK 
RIGIDLY  RIGHTEOUS. 

"  My  son,  these  maxims  make  a  rule, 
And  lump  them  aye  thegither : 
The  Risid  Righteous  is  a  fool, 

The  Rigid  Wise  anither. 
The  cleanest  corn  that  e'er  was  dight 

May  hae  some  pyles  o'  caff  in; 
So  ne'er  a  fellow-creature  slight 
For  random  fits  o'  daffln." 

Solomon.  —  Eccles.  vii.  16. 

/^\H  ye  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel', 

Sae  pious  and  sae  holy, 
Ye  've  nought  to  do  but  mark  and  tell 

Your  neebour's  fauts  and  folly  :  — 
Whase  life  is  like  a  weel-gaun  mill, 

Supplied  wi'  store  o'  water, 
The  heaped  happer  's  ebbing  still, 

And  still  the  clap  plays  clatter  :  — 


222      ADDRESS   TO   THE  UNCO  GUID. 

Hear  me,  ye  venerable  core, 

As  counsel  for  poor  mortals, 
That  frequent  pass  douce  Wisdom's  door 

For  glaikit  Folly's  portals  ! 
I,  for  their  thoughtless,  careless  sakes, 

Would  here  propone  defences, 
Their  donsie  tricks,  their  black  mistakes, 

Their  failings  and  mischances. 

Ye  see  your  state  wi'  theirs  compared, 

And  shudder  at  the  niffer  : 
But  cast  a  moment's  fair  regard, 

What  maks  the  mighty  differ  ? 
Discount  what  scant  occasion  gave 

That  purity  ye  pride  in, 
And  (what 's  aft  mair  than  a'  the  lave) 

Your  better  art  o'  hiding. 

Think,  when  your  castigated  pulse 

Gies  now  and  then  a  wallop, 
What  ragings  must  his  veins  convulse, 

That  still  eternal  gallop  ; 
Wi'  wind  and  tide  fair  i'  your  tail, 

Right  on  ye  scud  your  sea-way  ; 
But  in  the  teeth  o'  baith  to  sail, 

It  makes  an  unco  lee-way. 

See  Social  Life  and  Glee  sit  down, 
All  joyous  and  unthinking, 

Till,  quite  transmugrified,  they  're  grown 
Debauchery  and  Drinking. 

Oh  would  they  stay  to  calculate 
Th'  eternal  consequences  ! 


ADDRESS    TO    THE   UNCO   QUID.        22i 

Or  your  more  dreaded  hell  to  state, 
Damnation  of  expenses  ! 

Ye  high,  exalted,  virtuous  dames, 

Tied  up  in  godly  laces, 
Before  ye  gie  poor  Frailty  names, 

Suppose  a  change  o'  cases  ; 
A  dear-loved  lad,  convenience  snug, 

A  treacherous  inclination  — 
But,  let  me  whisper  i'  your  lug, 

Ye  're  aiblins  nae  temptation. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 

Still  gentler  sister  woman  ; 
Though  they  may  gang  a  kennin'  wrang, 

To  step  aside  is  human  : 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  why  they  do  it  : 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

Who  made  the  heart,  't  is  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us  ; 
He  knows  each  chord  —  its  various  tone, 

Each  spring  —  its  various  bias. 
Then  at  the  balance  let 's  be  mute  ; 

We  never  can  adjust  it ; 
What's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what 's  resisted. 


THE  INVENTORY. 


THE  INVENTORY. 

IN   ANSWER  TO   A    MANDATE   BY  THE   SURVEYOR  OF 

THE   TAXES. 

QIK,,  as  your  mandate  did  request, 

I  send  you  here  a  faithfu'  list 
O'  gudes  and  gear,  and  a'  my  graith, 
To  which  I  'm  clear  to  gie  my  aith. 

Imprimis,  then,  for  carriage-cattle, 
I  have  four  brutes  o'  gallant  mettle, 
As  ever  drew  afore  a  pettle. 
My  han'  afore 's  a  gude  auld  has-been, 
And  wight  and  wilfu'  a'  his  days  been. 
My  han'  ahin  's  a  weel-gaun  filly, 
That  aft  has  borne  me  hame  frae  Killie, 
And  your  auld  burro'  monie  a  time, 
In  days  when  riding  was  nae  crime. 
But  ance,  whan  in  my  wooing  pride, 
I  like  a  blockhead  boost  to  ride, 
The  wilfu'  creature  sae  I  pat  to 
(L — ,  pardon  all  my  sins,  and  that  too  1) 
I  played  my  filly  sic  a  shavie, 
She 's  a'  bedevil'd  wi'  the  spavie. 
My  fur  ahin 's  a  wordy  beast, 
As  e'er  in  tug  or  tow  was  traced. 
The  fourth's  a  Highland  Donald  hastie, 
A  d — d  red  wud  Kilburnie  blastie  ! 
Forbye  a  cowte  o'  cowtes  the  wale, 
As  ever  ran  afore  a  tail, 
If  he  be  spared  to  be  a  beast, 
He  '11  draw  me  fifteen  pun'  at  least. 


THE  INVENTORY.  2 

Wheel-carriages  I  hae  but  few, 
Three  carts,  and  twa  are  feckly  new ; 
Ae  auld  wheelbarrow,  mair  for  token 
Ae  leg  and  baith  the  trams  are  broken ; 
I  made  a  poker  o'  the  spin'le, 
And  my  auld  mither  brunt  the  trin'le. 

For  men,  I  've  three  mischievous  boys, 
Run  deils  for  rantin'  and  for  noise  ; 
A  gaudsman  ane,  a  thrasher  t'  other, 
Wee  Davock  bauds  the  nowt  in  fother. 
I  rule  them,  as  I  ought,  discreetly, 
And  aften  labour  them  completely; 
And  aye  on  Sundays  duly,  nightly, 
I  on  the  Questions  targe  them  tightly  ; 
Till,  faith,  wee  Davock 's  turned  sae  gleg, 
Though  scarcely  langer  than  your  leg, 
He  '11  screed  you  aff  Effectual  Calling, 
As  fast  as  ony  in  the  dwalling. 
I  've  nane  in  female  servin'  station 
(L —  keep  me  aye  frae  a'  temptation  1) 
I  hae  nae  wife  —  and  that  my  bliss  is, 
And  ye  have  laid  nae  tax  on  misses. 
Wi'  weans  I  'm  mair  than  weel  contented, 
Heaven  sent  me  ane  mae  than  I  wanted. 
My  sonsie,  smirking,  dear-bought  Bess, 
She  stares  the  daddy  in  her  face, 
Enough  of  ought  ye  like  but  grace ; 
But  her,  my  bonny  sweet  wee  lady, 
I  've  paid  enough  for  her  already, 
And  gin  ye  tax  her  or  her  mither, 
B'  the  L— !  ye  'se  get  them  a'  thegither. 

v  or .  i.  15 


226         EPISTLE    TO  MR.   KENNEDY. 

And  now,  remember,  Mr.  Aiken, 
Nae  kind  of  licence  out  I  'm  takin' ;  .  .  . 
My  travel  a'  on  foot  I  '11  shank  it, 
I've  sturdy  bearei-s,  Gude  be  thankit.  .  . 
Sae  dinna  put  me  in  your  buke, 
Nor  for  my  ten  white  shillings  luke. 

This  list  wi'  my  ain  hand  I  've  wrote  it, 
The  day  and  date  as  under  noted ; 
Then  know  all  ye  whom  it  concerns, 
Svbscripsi  huic,  Robert  Burns. 

Mossuiel,  February  22,  1786. 


TO  MR.  JOHN  KENNEDY. 

"VTOW,  Kennedy,  if  foot  or  horse 

E'er  bring  you  in  by  Mauchline  Corse, 
L — ,  man,  there 's  lasses  there  wad  force 

A  hermit's  fancy  ; 
And  down  the  gate,  in  faith,  they  're  worse, 

And  mair  unchancy. 

But,  as  I  'm  sayin',  please  step  to  Dow's, 
And  taste  sic  gear  as  Johnnie  brews, 
Till  some  bit  callan  bring  me  news 

That  you  are  there  ; 
And  if  we  dinna  haud  a  bouze, 

I  'se  ne'er  drink  mair. 

It 's  no  I  like  to  sit  and  swallow, 
Then  like  a  swine  to  puke  and  wallow 


ON  HANNAH  At  ORE'S   WORKS.       227 

But  gie  me  just  a  true  guid  fallow, 

Wi'  right  engine, 
And  spunkie,  ance  to  make  us  mellow, 

And  then  we  '11  shine. 

Now,  if  ye  're  ane  o'  warld's  folic, 
Wha  rate  the  wearer  by  the  cloak, 
And  sklent  on  poverty  their  joke, 

Wi'  bitter  sneer, 
Wi'  you  no  friendship  will  I  troke, 

Nor  cheap  nor  dear. 

But  if,  as  I  'm  informed  weel, 
Ye  hate,  as  ill 's  the  very  deil, 
The  flinty  heart  that  canna  feel, 

Come,  sir,  here 's  tae  you ! 
Hae,  there  's  my  han',  I  wiss  you  weel, 

And  guid  be  wi'  you  1 

R.B. 


INSCRIBED  ON  THE  BLANK-LEAF  OF  A  COPY 
OF  MISS  HANNAH  MORE'S  WORKS,  PRE- 
SENTED  BY   THE    AUTHOR. 

rPHOU  flattering  mark  of  friendship  kind, 
Still  may  thy  pages  call  to  mind 

The  dear,  the  beauteous  Donor  : 
Though  sweetly  female  every  part, 
Yet  such  a  head,  and  more  the  heart, 

Does  both  the  sexes  honour. 
She  shewed  her  taste  refined  and  just 

When  she  selected  thee, 
Yet  deviating  own  I  must, 


228  TO  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY. 

Tn  sae  approving  me ; 

But  kind  still,  I  '11  mind  still 

The  Giver  in  the  gift  — 
I'll  bless  her,  and  wiss  her 

A  friend  aboon  the  lift. 


TO  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY, 

OH  TURNING   ONE  DOWN   WITH    THE    PLOUGH  IN   APRIL 

1786. 

Y\^"EE,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 

Thou 's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour ; 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem : 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power, 

Thou  bonny  gem. 

Alas !  it 's  no  thy  neibor  sweet, 
The  bonny  lark,  companion  meet, 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet, 

Wi'  speckled  breast, 
When  upward-springing,  blithe,  to  greet 

The  purpling  east ! 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter  biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth  ; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm, 
Scarce  reared  above  the  parent  earth 

Thy  tender  form. 


TO  A   MOUNTAIN  DAISY'.  229 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield, 
High  sheltering  woods  and  wa's  maun  shield : 
But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield 

O'  clod  or  stane, 
Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sunward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise ; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies  ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 
Sweet  floweret  of  the  rural  shade  ! 
By  love's  simplicity  betrayed, 

And  guileless  trust, 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soiled,  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard, 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starr'd ! 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore, 
Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o'er  ! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given, 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striven, 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driven 
To  misery's  brink, 


230  THE  LAMENT. 

Till  wrenched  of  every  stay  but  Heaven, 
He,  ruined,  pink ! 

Even  thou  who  mourn'st  the  Daisy's  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine  —  no  distant  date ; 
Stern  Ruin's  ploughshare  drives,  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 
Till  crushed  beneath  the  furrow's  weight, 

Shall  be  thy  doom. 


LAMENT, 

OCCASIONED    BY   THE  UNFORTUNATE  ISSUE  OF   A 
FRIEND'S  AMOUR. 

"  Alas !  how  oft  does  goodness  wound  itself, 
And  sweet  affection  proye  the  spring  of  woe !  "  — Horn 

/"\H  thou  pale  orb,  that  silent  shines, 
^~^  While  care-untroubled  mortals  sleep  1 
Thou  seest  a  wretch  who  inly  pines, 

And  wanders  here  to  wail  and  weep ! 
With  woe  I  nightly  vigils  keep 

Beneath  thy  wan,  unwarming  beam ; 
And  mourn,  in  lamentation  deep, 

How  life  and  love  are  all  a  dream. 

I  joyless  view  thy  rays  adorn 

The  faintly-marked  distant  hill : 
I  joyless  view  thy  trembling  horn 

Reflected  in  the  gurgling  rill : 
My  fondly-fluttering  heart  be  still ! 

Thou  busy  power,  remembrance,  cease  1 


THE  LAMENT.  231 

All !  must  the  agonising  thrill 
For  ever  bar  returning  peace ! 

No  idly-feigned  poetic  pains 

My  sad,  love-lorn  laraentings  claim ; 
No  shepherd's  pipe  —  Arcadian  strains ; 

No  fabled  tortures,  quaint  and  tame : 
The  plighted  faith,  the  mutual  flame, 

The  oft-attested  Powers  above, 
The  promised  father's  tender  name  — 

These  were  the  pledges  of  my  love  ! 

Encircled  in  her  clasping  arms, 

How  have  the  raptured  moments  flown  J 
How  have  I  wished  for  fortune's  charms 

For  her  dear  sake,  and  hers  alone  1 
And  must  I  think  it !  —  is  she  gone, 

My  secret  heart's  exulting  boast  ? 
And  does  she  heedless  hear  my  groan  ? 

And  is  she  ever,  ever  lost  ? 

Oh  can  she  bear  so  base  a  heart, 

So  lost  to  honour,  lost  to  truth, 
As  from  the  fondest  lover  part, 

The  plighted  husband  of  her  youth  ! 
Alas  !  life's  path  may  be  unsmooth  ! 

Her  way  may  He  through  rough  distress  1 
Then  who  her  pangs  and  pains  will  soothe, 

Her  sorrows  share,  and  make  them  less  ? 

Ye  winged  hours  that  o'er  us  passed, 

Enraptured  more,  the  more  enjoyed, 
Your  dear  remembrance  in  my  breast, 


232  THE  LAMENT. 

My  fondly-treasured  thoughts  employed. 
That  breast,  how  dreary  now,  and  void, 

For  her  too  scanty  once  of  room  ! 
Even  every  ray  of  hope  destroyed, 

And  not  a  wish  to  gild  the  gloom  ! 

The  morn  that  warns  th'  approaching  day, 

Awakes  me  up  to  toil  and  woe : 
I  see  the  hours  in  long  array, 

That  I  must  suffer,  lingering,  slow. 
Full  many  a  pang,  and  many  a  throe, 

Keen  recollection's  direful  train, 
Must  wring  my  soul  ere  Phcebus,  low, 

Shall  kiss  the  distant  western  main. 

And  when  my  nightly  couch  I  try, 

Sore  harassed  out  with  care  and  grief, 
My  toil-beat  nerves,  and  tear-worn  eye 

Keep  watchings  with  the  nightly  thief. 
Or  if  I  slumber,  fancy,  chief, 

Reigns  haggard-wild  in  sore  affright : 
Even  day,  all  bitter,  brings  relief 

From  such  a  horror-breathing  night. 

Oh  thou  bright  queen,  who  o'er  th'  expanse, 

Now  highest  reign'st,  with  boundless  sway 
Oft  has  thy  silent-marking  glance 

Observed  us,  fondly-wandering,  stray  I 
The  time  unheeded  sped  away, 

While  love's  luxurious  pulse  beat  high, 
Beneath  thy  silver-gleaming  ray, 

To  mark  the  mutual  kindling  eye. 


DESPONDENCY.  233 

Oh  scenes  In  strong  remembrance  set  1 

Scenes  never,  never  to  return  ! 
Scenes,  if  in  stupor  I  forget, 

Again  I  feel,  again  I  burn  ! 
From  every  joy  and  pleasure  torn, 

Life's  weary  vale  I  '11  wander  through  ; 
And  hopeless,  comfortless,  I  '11  mourn 

A  faithless  woman's  broken  vow. 


DESPONDENCY. 


/^iPPRESSED  with  grief,  oppressed  with  care, 
^^^   A  burden  more  than  I  can  bear, 

I  set  me  down  and  sigh  : 
Oh  life  !  thou  art  a  galling  load, 
Along  a  rough,  a  weary  road, 

To  wretches  such  as  I ! 
Dim-backward  as  I  cast  my  view, 
What  sickening  scenes  appear  ! 
What  sorrows  yet  may  pierce  me  tlirouph, 
Too  justly  I  may  fear  ! 
Still  caring,  despairing, 

Must  be  my  bitter  doom  ; 
My  woes  here  shall  close  ne'er 
But  with  the  closing  tomb  1 

Happy,  ye  sons  of  busy  life, 
Who,  equal  to  the  bustling  strife, 

No  other  view  regard  ! 
Even  when  the  wished  end  's  denied, 


234  DESPONDENCY. 

Yet  while  the  busy  means  are  plied, 

They  bring  their  own  rewaid  : 
Whilst  I,  a  hope-abandoned  wight, 

Unfitted  with  an  aim, 
Meet  every  sad  returning  night 
And  joyless  morn  tlie  same. 
You,  bustling,  and  justling, 

Forget  each  grief  and  pain  ; 
I,  listless,  yet  restless, 

Find  every  prospect  vain. 

How  blest  the  solitary's  lot, 
Who,  all-forgetting,  all-forgot, 

Within  his  humble  cell, 
The  cavern  wild  with  tangling  roots, 
Sits  o'er  his  newly-gathered  fruits, 

Beside  his  crystal  well ! 
Or  haply  to  his  evening  thought, 

By  unfrequented  stream, 
The  ways  of  men  are  distant  brought, 
A  faint  collected  dream  ; 
While  praising,  and  raising 

His  thoughts  to  Heaven  on  high 
As  wand'ring,  meand'ring, 
He  views  the  solemn  sky. 

Than  I,  no  lonely  hermit  placed, 
Where  never  human  footstep  traced, 

Less  fit  to  play  the  part ; 
The  lucky  moment  to  improve, 
And  just  to  stop,  and  just  to  move, 

With  self-respecting  art. 
But  ah  !  those  pleasures,  loves,  and  joyB, 


TO   RUIN. 

Which  I  too  keenly  taste, 
The  solitary  can  despise, 

Can  want,  and  yet  be  blest ! 
He  needs  not,  he  heeds  not, 

Or  human  love  or  hate, 
Whilst  I  here,  must  cry  here 
At  perfidy  ingrate  ! 

Oh  enviable,  early  days, 

When  dancing  thoughtless  pleasures  maze, 

To  care,  to  guilt  unknown  ! 
How  ill  exchanged  for  riper  times, 
To  feel  the  follies,  or  the  crimes, 

Of  others,  or  my  own  ! 
Ye  tiny  elves  that  guiltless  sport, 

Like  linnets  in  the  bush, 
Ye  little  know  the  ills  ye  court, 
When  manhood  is  your  wish  ! 
The  losses,  the  crosses, 

That  active  man  engage  I 
The  fears  all,  the  tears  all, 
Of  dim  declining  age. 


TO   RUIN. 

A  LL  hail  !  inexorable  lord, 
*^^  At  whose  destruction-breathing  word 

The  mightiest  empires  fall  ! 
Thy  cruel,  woe-delighted  train, 
The  ministers  of  grief  and  pain, 

A  sullen  welcome,  all  ! 


236  S01VG. 

With  stern-resolved,  despairing  eye, 

I  see  each  aimed  dart ; 
For  one  has  cut  my  dearest  tie, 
And  quivers  in  my  heart. 
Then  lowering  and  pouring, 

The  storm  no  more  I  dread  ; 
Though  thick'ning  and  black'ning 
Round  my  devoted  head. 

And  thou  grim  Power,  by  life  abhorred, 
While  life  a  pleasure  can  afford, 

Oh  hear  a  wretch's  prayer  ! 
No  more  I  shrink  appalled,  afraid  , 
<  I  court,  I  beg  thy  friendly  aid, 

To  close  this  scene  of  care  ! 
When  shall  my  soul,  in  silent  peace, 

Resign  life's  joyless  day  ; 
My  weary  heart  its  throbbings  cease, 
Cold  mouldering  in  the  clay  ? 
No  fear  more,  no  tear  more, 
To  stain  my  lifeless  face  ; 
Enclasped  and  grasped 
Within  thy  cold  embrace  I 


SONG. 


A  GAIN  rejoicing  Nature  sees 
"^^  Her  robe  assume  its  vernal  hues 
Her  leafy  locks  wave  in  the  breeze, 
All  freshly  steeped  in  morning  dews. 


BONG.  237 

In  vain  to  me  the  cowslips  blaw, 
In  vain  to  me  the  violets  spring ; 

In  vain  to  me,  in  glen  or  shaw, 
The  mavis  and  the  lintwhite  sing. 

The  merry  ploughboy  cheers  his  team, 
Wi'  joy  the  tentie  seedsman  stalks  ; 

But  life  to  me  's  a  weary  dream, 
A  dream  of  ane  that  never  wauks. 

The  wanton  coot  the  water  skims, 
Amang  the  reeds  the  ducklings  cry, 

The  stately  swan  majestic  swims, 
And  everything  is  blest  but  I. 

The  shepherd  steeks  his  faulding  slap, 
And  owre  the  moorland  whistles  shrill ; 

Wi'  wild,  unequal,  wandering  step, 
I  meet  him  on  the  dewy  hill. 

And  when  the  lark,  'tween  light  and  dark, 
Blithe  waukens  by  the  daisy's  side, 

And  mounts  and  sings  on  flittering  wings, 
A  woe-worn  ghaist  I  hameward  glide. 

Come,  Winter,  with  thine  angry  howl, 
And  raging  bend  the  naked  tree  : 

Thy  gloom  will  soothe  my  cheerless  soul, 
When  Nature  all  is  sad  like  me  1 


238        NOTE  TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON. 


NOTE  TO   GAVIN  HAMILTON. 

T  HOLD  it,  sir,  my  bounden  duty, 
To  warn  you  how  that  Master  Tootie, 
Alias,  Laird  M'Gaun, 
Was  here  to  hire  yon  lad  away 
'Bout  whom  ye  spak  the  tither  day, 

And  wad  hae  done 't  aff  han' : 
But  lest  he  learn  the  callan  tricks, 

As,  faith,  I  muckle  doubt  him, 
Like  scrapin'  out  auld  Crummie's  nicks. 
And  tellin'  lies  about  them ; 
As  lieve  then,  I  'd  have  then, 

Your  clerkship  he  should  sair, 
If  sae  be  ye  may  be 
Not  fitted  other  where. 

Although  I  say 't,  he 's  gleg  enough, 
And  'bout  a  house  that 's  rude  and  rough, 

The  boy  might  learn  to  swear  ; 
But  then  wi'  you  he  '11  be  sae  taught, 
And  get  sic  fair  example  straught, 

I  havena  ony  fear. 
Ye  '11  catechise  him  every  quirk, 
And  shore  him  weel  wi'  h — , 
And  gar  him  follow  to  the  kirk  — 
Aye  when  ye  gang  yoursel'. 
If  ye,  then,  maun  be,  then, 

Frae  hame  this  comin'  Friday 
Then  please,  sir,  to  lea'e,  sir, 
The  orders  wi'  your  leddy. 


EPISTLE   TO  A    YOUNG  FRIEND.      239 

My  word  of  honour  I  hae  gien, 

In  Paisley  John's,  that  night  at  e'en. 

To  meet  the  warld's  worm ; 
To  try  to  get  the  twa  to  gree, 
And  name  the  airles  and  the  fee, 

In  legal  mode  and  form. 
I  ken  he  weel  a  sneck  can  draw, 
When  simple  bodies  let  him  ; 
And  if  a  devil  be  at  a', 

In  faith  he 's  sure  to  get  him. 
To  phrase  you,  and  praise  you, 

Ye  ken  your  Laureate  scorns : 
The  prayer  still,  you  share  still, 
Of  grateful  Minstrel  Burns. 


EPISTLE  TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND. 

I"  LANG  hae  thought,  my  youthfu'  friend, 
A  something  to  have  sent  you, 
Though  it  should  serve  nae  other  end 

Than  just  a  kind  memento  ; 
But  how  the  subject-theme  may  gang, 

Let  time  and  chance  determine  ; 
Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  a  sang, 
Perhaps  turn  out  a  sermon. 

Ye  '11  try  the  world  fu'  soon,  my  lad, 

And,  Andrew  dear,  believe  me, 
Ye  '11  find  mankind  an  unco  squad, 


240      EPISTLE   TO  A   YOUNG  FRIEND. 

And  muckle  they  may  grieve  ye. 
For  care  and  trouble  set  your  thought, 

Even  when  your  end 's  attained  ; 
And  a'  your  views  may  come  to  nought, 

Where  every  nerve  is  strained. 

I  '11  no  say  men  are  villains  a' ; 

The  real,  hardened  wicked, 
Wha  hae  nae  check  but  human  law, 

Are  to  a  few  restricked  : 
But,  och  !  mankind  are  unco  weak, 

And  little  to  be  trusted  ; 
If  self  the  wavering  balance  shake, 

It 's  rarely  right  adjusted  ! 

Yet  they  wha  fa'  in  fortune's  strife, 

Their  fate  we  should  na  censure, 
For  still  th'  important  end  of  life 

They  equally  may  answer  : 
A  man  may  hae  an  honest  heart, 

Though  poortith  hourly  stare  him; 
A  man  may  tak  a  neibor's  part, 

Yet  hae  nae  cash  to  spare  him. 

Aye  free,  aff  han'  your  story  tell, 

When  wi'  a  bosom  crony ; 
But  still  keep  something  to  yoursel' 

Ye  scarcely  tell  to  ony. 
Conceal  yoursel'  as  weel  's  ye  can 

Frae  critical  dissection, 
But  keek  through  every  other  man 

Wi'  sharpened,  sly  inspection. 


EPISTLE  TO  A    YOUNG  FRIEND.     241 

The  sacred  lowe  o'  weel-placed  love, 

Luxuriantly  indulge  it ; 
But  never  tempt  th'  illicit  rove, 

Though  naething  should  divulge  it. 
I  waive  the  quantum  o'  the  sin, 

The  hazard  of  concealing ; 
But,  och  !  it  hardens  a'  within, 

And  petrifies  the  feeling  ! 

To  catch  Dame  Fortune's  golden  smile, 

Assiduous  wait  upon  her  ; 
And  gather  gear  by  every  wile 

That's  justified  by  honour  ; 
Not  for  to  hide  it  in  a  hedge, 

Nor  for  a  train-attendant, 
But  for  the  glorious  privilege 

Of  being  independent. 

The  fear  o'  hell 's  a  hangman's  whip, 

To  haud  the  wretch  in  order  ; 
But  where  ye  feel  your  honour  grip, 

Let  that  aye  be  your  border  : 
Its  slightest  touches,  instant  pause  — 

Debar  a'  side-pretences ; 
And  resolutely  keep  its  laws, 

Uncaring  consequences. 

The  great  Creator  to  revere 

Must  sure  become  the  creature  ; 

But  still  the  preaching  cant  forbear, 
And  even  the  rigid  feature. 

Yet  ne'er  with  wits  profane  to  range, 
Be  complaisance  extended  ; 

VOL.  I.  1G 


242       EPISTLE  TO  A   YOUNG  FRIEND. 

An  Atheist  laugh  's  a  poor  exchange 
For  Deity  offended ! 

When  ranting  round  in  Pleasure's  ring, 

Religion  may  be  blinded  ; 
Or  if  she  gie  a  random  sting, 

It  may  be  little  minded ; 
But  when  on  life  we  're  tempest-driven, 

A  conscience  but  a  canker, 
A  correspondence  fixed  wi'  Heaven 

Is  sure  a  noble  anchor  ! 

Adieu,  dear  amiable  youth  ! 

Your  heart  can  ne'er  be  wanting  ! 
May  prudence,  fortitude,  and  truth, 

Erect  your  brow  undaunting  ! 
In  ploughman  phrase,  "  God  send  you  speed," 

Still  daily  to  grow  wiser  ; 
And  may  you  better  reck  the  rede 

Than  ever  did  th'  adviser  ! x 


i  In  a  copy  of  this  poem  in  Burns's  own  hand,  and  bearing 
date  "  Mossgiel,  Way  15th,  1786,"  there  occurs  an  additional 
stanza  which  the  admirable  taste  of  the  poet  had  doubtless  ob- 
served to  be  below  the  rest  in  terseness  and  point,  and  which  he 
had  therefore  seen  fit  to  omit.  It  throws  so  valuable  a  light  on 
the  state  of  his  own  mind  at  this  crisis,  that  it  certainly  ought 
not  to  be  suppressed,  though  we  should  not  desire  to  see  it  re- 
placed in  the  poem.  It  occurs  immediately  after  the  line,  "And 
petrifies  the  feeling.  ' 


If  ye  hae  made  a  step  aside, 

Some  hap  mistake  o'erta'en  you, 
Yet  still  keep  up  a  decent  pride, 

And  ne'er  o'er  far  demean  you. 
Time  comes  wi'  kind  oblivious  shade, 

And  daily  darker  sets  it, 
And  if  nae  mair  mistakes  are  made, 

The  world  soon  forgets  it. 


FLOW  GENTLY,  SWEET  AFT  ON.     243 

FLOW  GENTLY,  SWEET  AFTON. 

Toni —  The  Yellow-haired  Laddie. 

"E^LOW  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green 

braes, 
Flow  gently,  I  '11  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise  ; 
My  Mary 's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

Thou  stock-dove  whose  echo  resounds  through  the 
glen, 

Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny  den, 

Thou  green-crested  lapwing  thy  screaming  for- 
bear, 

I  charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighbouring  hills, 
Far  marked   with   the   courses   of  clear  winding 

rills  ; 
There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high, 
My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys  below, 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses  blow ; 
There  oft  as  mild  evening  weeps  over  the  lea, 
The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides, 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides ; 
How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave, 
As  gathering  sweet  flowerets  she  stems  thy  clear 
wave. 


244  THE  HIGHLAND  LASSIE. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays ; 
My  Mary 's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 


THE  HIGHLAND  LASSIE. 

~VTAE  gentle  dames,  though  e'er  sae  fair, 

Shall  ever  be  my  Muse's  care  : 
Their  titles  a  are  empty  show  ; 
Gie  me  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Within  the  glen  sae  bushy,  O, 
Aboon  the  plains  sae  rushy,  O, 
I  set  me  down  wi'  right  good-will, 
To  sing  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Oh  were  yon  hills  and  valleys  mine, 
Yon  palace  and  yon  gardens  fine, 
The  world  then  the  love  should  know 
I  bear  my  Highland  lassie,  0. 

But  fickle  Fortune  frowns  on  me, 
And  I  maun  cross  the  raging  sea ; 
But  while  my  crimson  currents  flow, 
I  '11  love  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Although  through  foreign  climes  I  range, 
I  know  her  heart  will  never  change, 
For  her  bosom  burns  with  honour's  glow, 
My  faithful  Highland  lassie,  O. 


A  PRAYER  FOR  MARY.  245 

For  her  I  '11  dare  the  billows'  roar, 
For  her  I  '11  trace  a  distant  shore, 
That  Indian  wealth  may  lustre  throw 
Around  my  Highland  lassie,  0. 

She  has  my  heart,  she  has  my  hand, 
By  sacred  truth  and  honour's  band  ! 
'Till  the  mortal  stroke  shall  lay  me  low, 
I  'm  thine,  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Farewell  the  glen  sae  bushy,  O ! 
Farewell  the  plain  sae  rushy,  O ! 
To  other  lands  I  now  must  go, 
To  sing  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 


A  PRAYER  FOR  MARY. 

"DOWERS  celestial !  whose  protection 

Ever  guards  the  virtuous  fair, 
While  in  distant  climes  I  wander, 

Let  my  Mary  be  your  care  : 
Let  her  form  sae  fair  aud  faultless, 

Fair  and  faultless  as  your  own, 
Let  my  Mary's  kindred  spirit 

Draw  your  choicest  influence  down 

Make  the  gales  you  waft  around  her 
Soft  and  peaceful  as  her  breast ; 

Breathing  in  the  breeze  that  fans  her, 
Soothe  her  bosom  into  rest : 


246         WILL    YE  GO    TO    TEE  INDIES t 

Guardian  angels  !  oh,  protect  her 
When  in  distant  lands  I  roam  ; 

To  realms  unknown  while  fate  exiles  me, 
Make  her  bosom  still  my  home. 


WILL  YE  GO  TO  THE  INDIES,  MY  MARY? 

"YXTILL  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 

And  leave  auld  Scotia's  shore  ? 
Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 
Across  the  Atlantic's  roar  ? 

Oh  sweet  grow  the  lime  and  the  orange, 

And  the  apple  on  the  pine ; 
But  a'  the  charms  o'  the  Indies 

Can  never  equal  thine. 

I  hae  sworn  by  the  Heavens  to  my  Mary, 
I  hae  sworn  by  the  Heavens  to  be  true ; 

And  sae  may  the  Heavens  forget  me 
When  I  forget  my  vow  1 

Oh  plight  me  your  faith,  my  Mary, 
And  plight  me  your  lily-white  hand  ; 

Oh  plight  me  your  faith,  my  Mary, 
Before  I  leave  Scotia's  strand. 

We  hae  plighted  our  troth,  my  Mary, 

In  mutual  affection  to  join ; 
And  curst  be  the  cause  that  shall  part  us, 

The  hour  and  the  moment  o'  time! 


THOUGII  CRUEL  FATE.  217 

ELIZA. 

Tone  —  GUderoy. 

"C^ROM  thee,  Eliza,  I  must  go, 
And  from  my  native  shore : 
The  cruel  fates  between  us  throw 

A  boundless  ocean's  roar ; 
But  boundless  oceans,  roaring  wide 

Between  my  love  and  me, 
They  never,  never  can  divide 

My  heart  and  soul  from  thee. 

Farewell,  farewell,  Eliza  dear, 

The  maid  that  I  adore ! 
A  boding  voice  is  in  my  ear, 

We  part  to  meet  no  more  ! 
But  the  last  throb  that  leaves  my  heart, 

While  death  stands  victor  by, 
That  throb,  Eliza,  is  thy  part, 

And  thine  that  latest  sijdi ! 


THOUGH   CRUEL   FATE.1 
Tune — The  Northern  Lass. 

nTHOUGH  cruel  fate  should  bid  us  part, 

Far  as  the  pole  and  line ; 
Her  dear  idea  round  my  heart. 
Should  tenderly  entwine. 

Though  mountains  rise  and  deserts  howl, 

And  oceans  roar  between, 
Yet  dearer  than  my  deathless  soul, 

I  still  would  love  my  Jean. 


218  ADDRESS    OF  BEELZEBUB. 


ADDRESS  OF  BEELZEBUB. 

["  ONG  life,  my  lord,  and  health  be  yours, 
Unscaithed  by  hungered  Highland  boors 
Lord,  grant  nae  duddie  desperate  beggar, 
Wi'  dirk,  claymore,  or  rusty  trigger, 
May  twin  auld  Scotland  o'  a  life 
She  likes  —  as  lambkins  like  a  knife. 
Faith,  you  and  Applecross  were  right 
To  keep  the  Highland  hounds  in  sight ; 
I  doubt  na !  they  wad  bid  nae  better 
Than,  let  them  ance  out  owre  the  water, 
Then  up  amang  thae  lakes  and  seas, 
They  '11  mak  what  rules  and  laws  they  please 
Some  daring  Hancock,  or  a  Franklin, 
May  set  their  Highland  bluid  a-ranklin' ; 
Some  Washington  again  may  head  them, 
Or  some  Montgomery,  feai-less,  lead  them, 
Till  God  knows  what  may  be  effected, 
When  by  such  heads  and  hearts  directed. 
Poor  dunghill  sons  of  dirt  and  mire 
May  to  patrician  rights  aspire ! 
Nae  sage  North  now,  nor  sager  Sackville, 
To  watch  and  premier  o'er  the  pack  vile, 
And  whare  will  ye  get  Howes  and  Clinton* 
To  bring  them  to  a  right  repentance, 
To  cowe  the  rebel  generation, 
And  save  the  honour  o'  the  nation  ? 

They,  and  be  d !  what  right  hae  they 

To  meat  or  sleep,  or  light  o'  day  ? 
Far  less  to  riches,  power,  or  freedom, 
But  what  your  lordship  likes  to  gie  them  ? 


ADDRESS   OF  BEELZEBUB.  21'J 

But  hear,  ray  lord !  Glengarry,  hear ! 

Your  hand  's  owre  light  on  them,  I  fear ; 

Your  factors,  grieves,  trustees,  and  bailiea, 

I  canna  say  but  they  do  gaylies ; 

They  lay  aside  a'  tender  mercies, 

And  tirl  the  hallions  to  the  birses  ; 

Yet  while  they  're  only  poind't  and  herriet, 

They  '11  keep  their  stubborn  Highland  spirit ; 

But  smash  them,  crash  them  a'  to  spails  ! 

And  rot  the  dy  vors  i'  the  jails  ! 

The  young  dogs,  swinge  them  to  the  labour; 

Let  wark  and  hunger  mak  them  sober ! 

The  hizzies,  if  they  're  oughtlins  fawsont, 

Let  them  in  Drury  Lane  be  lessoned ! 

And  if  the  wives  and  dirty  brats 

E'en  thigger  at  your  doors  and  yetts, 

Flaffan  wi'  duds  and  gray  wi'  beas', 

Frightin'  awa'  your  deucks  and  geese, 

Get  out  a  horsewhip  or  a  jowler, 

The  langest  thong,  the  fiercest  growler, 

And  gar  the  tattered  gipsies  pack, 

Wi'  a'  their  bastards  on  their  back ! 

Go  on,  my  lord  !  I  lang  to  meet  you, 

And  in  my  house  at  home  to  greet  you. 

Wi'  common  lords  ye  shanna  mingle; 

The  benmost  neuk  beside  the  ingle, 

At  ray  right  han'  assigned  your  seat 

Tweeu  Herod's  hip  and  Polycrate  — 

Or,  if  you  on  your  station  tarrow, 

Between  Almagro  and  Pizarro, 

A  seat,  I  'm  sure,  ye  're  weel  deservin  't ; 

And  till  ye  come  —  Your  humble  servant, 

Beelzebub. 

Junt  1st,  Anno  Muiuli  5T'J0  [A.D.  17S0]. 


250  A  DREAM, 


A  DREAM. 


"  Thoughts,  words,  and  deeds  the  statute  blames  with  reason 
But  surely  dreams  were  ne'er  indicted  treason." 

/^.UID-MORNIN'  to  your  Majesty ! 

May  Heaven  augment  your  blisses, 
Or.  every  new  birthday,  ye  see, 

A  humble  poet  wishes  ! 
My  hardship  here,  at  your  levee, 

On  sic  a  day  as  this  is, 
Is  sure  an  uncouth  sight  to  see, 
Amang  thae  birthday  dresses 
Sae  fine  this  day. 

I  see  ye  're  complimented  thrang, 

By  many  a  lord  and  lady ; 
"  God  save  the  king  ! "  's  a  cuckoo  sang 

That 's  unco  easy  said  aye  ; 
The  poets,  too,  a  venal  gang, 

Wi'  rhymes  weel-turned  and  ready, 
Wad  gar  ye  trow  ye  ne'er  do  wrang, 

But  aye  unerring  steady, 
On  sic  a  day. 

For  me,  before  a  monarch's  face 

Even  there  I  winna  flatter ; 
For  neither  pension,  post,  nor  place, 

Am  I  your  humble  debtor  : 
So,  nae  reflection  on  your  grace, 

Your  kingship  to  bespatter  ; 
There 's  mony  waur  been  o'  the  race, 

And  aiblins  ane  been  better 
Than  you  this  day. 


A  DREAM.  251 

'T  is  very  true,  my  sovereign  king, 

My  skill  may  weel  be  doubted  : 
But  facts  are  chiels  that  winna  ding, 

And  downa  be  disputed  : 
Your  royal  nest,  beneath  your  wing, 

Is  e'en  right  reft  and  clouted, 
And  now  the  third  part  of  the  string, 

And  less,  will  gang  about  it 
Than  did  ae  day. 

Far  be  *t  frae  me  that  I  aspire 

To  blame  your  legislation, 
Or  say  ye  wisdom  want,  or  fire, 

To  rule  this  mighty  nation  ! 
But  faith  !  I  muckle  doubt,  my  sire, 

Ye  've  trusted  ministration 
To  chaps,  wha,  in  a  barn  or  byre, 

Wad  better  filled  their  station 
Than  courts  yon  day. 

And  now  ye  've  gien  auld  Britain  peace, 

Her  broken  shins  to  plaister, 
Your  sair  taxation  does  her  fleece, 

Till  she  has  scarce  a  tester. 
For  me,  thank  God,  my  life  's  a  lease, 

Nae  bargain  wearing  faster, 
Or,  faith  !  I  fear,  that,  wi'  the  geese, 

I  shortly  boost  to  pasture 

I'  the  craft  some  day. 

I  'm  no  mistrusting  Willie  Pitt, 

When  taxes  he  enlarges, 
(And  Will 's  a  true  guid  fallow's  get, 


252  A  DREAM. 

A  natne  hot  envy  spairges); 
That  he  intends  to  pay  your  debtj 

And  lessen  a'  your  charges  ; 
But  G —  sake  !  let  nae  saving  fit 

Abridge  your  bonny  barges 

And  boats  this  day. 

Adieu,  my  liege  !  may  Freedom  geek 

Beneath  your  high  protection  ; 
And  may  you  rax  Corruption's  neck, 

And  gie  her  for  dissection. 
But  since  I  'm  here,  I  '11  no  neglect, 

In  loyal,  true  affection, 
To  pay  your  Queen,  with  due  respect, 

My  fealty  and  subjection 

This  great  birthday. 

Hail  Majesty  Most  Excellent ! 

While  nobles  strive  to  please  ye, 
Will  ye  accept  a  compliment 

A  simple  poet  gies  ye  ? 
Thae  bonny  bairn-time  Heaven  has  lent, 

Still  higher  may  they  heeze  ye 
In  bliss,  till  fate  some  day  is  sent, 

Forever  to  release  ye 

Frae  care  that  day. 

For  you,  young  potentate  o'  Wales, 

I  tell  Your  Highness  fairly, 
Down  Pleasure's  stream,  wi'  swelling  sails, 

I  'm  tauld  ye  're  driving  rarely  ; 
But  some  day  ye  may  gnaw  your  nails, 

And  curse  your  folly  sairly, 


A  DREAM. 

That  e'er  ye  brak  Diana's  pales, 
Or  rattled  dice  wi'  Charlie, 
By  night  or  day. 

Yet  aft  a  ragged  cowte  's  been  known 

To  mak  a  noble  aiver  ; 
So,  ye  may  doucely  fill  a  throne, 

For  a'  their  clish-ma-elaver  : 
There,  him  at  Agincourt  wha  shone, 

Few  better  were  or  braver  ; 
And  yet,  wi'  funny,  queer  Sir  John, 

He  was  an  unco  shaver, 

For  monie  a  day. 

For  you,  Right  Reverend  Osnaburg, 

Nane  sets  the  lawn-sleeve  sweeter, 
Although  a  ribbon  at  your  lug 

Wad  been  a  dress  completer  : 
As  ye  disown  yon  paughty  dog 

That  bears  the  keys  of*  Peter, 
Then,  swith  !  and  get  a  wife  to  hug, 

Or,  trouth  !  ye  '11  stain  the  mitre 
Some  luckless  day. 

Young,  royal  Tarry  Breeks,  I  learn, 

Ye  've  lately  come  athwart  her, 
A  glorious  galley,  stem  and  stern, 

Weel  rigged  for  Venus'  barter ; 
But  first  hang  out,  that  she  '11  discern, 

Your  hymeneal  charter, 
Then  heave  aboard  your  grapple-airn, 

And,  large  upon  her  quarter, 
Come  full  that  day. 


254  THE  HOLY  FAIR. 

Ye,  lastly,  bonny  blossoms  a*, 

Ye  royal  lassies  dainty, 
Heaven  mak  ye  guid  as  weel  as  braw, 

And  gie  you  lads  a-plenty. 
But  sneer  na  British  boys  awa', 

For  kings  are  unco  scant  aye  ; 
And  German  gentles  are  but  sma', 

They  're  better  just  than  want  aye 
On  ony  day. 

God  bless  you  a' !  consider  now, 

Ye  're  unco  muckle  dautet ; 
But  ere  the  course  o'  life  be  through, 

It  may  be  bitter  sautet : 
And  I  hae  seen  their  coggie  fou, 

That  yet  hae  tarrow't  at  it ; 
But  or  the  day  was  done,  I  trow, 

The  laggen  they  hae  clautet 
Fu'  clean  that  day. 


THE  HOLY  FAIR. 

"  A  robe  of  seeming  truth  and  trust 
Hid  crafty  observation ; 
And  secret  hung,  with  poisoned  crugt, 

The  dirk  of  Defamation : 
A  mask  that  like  the  gorget  showed, 

Dye-varying  on  the  pigeon  ; 
And  for  a  mantle  large  aud  broad, 
He  wrapt  him  in  Religion." 

Hypocrisy  d-la-Mo'le, 

^TPON  a  simmer  Sunday-morn, 
When  Nature's  face  is  fair, 
I  walked  forth  to  view  the  corn, 


THE   HOLY  FAIR. 

And  snuff  the  cauler  air. 
The  rising  sun  o'er  Galston  muirs, 

Wi'  glorious  light  was  glintin' ; 
The  hares  were  hirplin'  down  the  furs, 

The  lav'roeks  they  were  chantin' 
Fu'  sweet  that  day. 

As  lightsomely  I  glowr'd  abroad, 

To  see  a  scene  sae  gay, 
Three  hizzies,  early  at  the  road, 

Cam  skelpin'  up  the  way. 
Twa  had  manteeles  o'  dolefu'  black, 

But  ane  wi'  lyart  lining  ; 
The  third,  that  gaed  a-wee  a-back, 

"Was  in  the  fashion  shining, 
Fu'  gay  that  day. 

The  twa  appeared  like  sisters  twin, 

In  feature,  form,  and  claes ; 
Their  visage  withered,  lang,  and  thin, 

And  sour  as  ony  slaes. 
The  third  cam  up,  hap-step-an'-lowp, 

As  light  as  ony  lambie, 
And  wi'  a  curchie  low  did  stoop, 

As  soon  as  e'er  she  saw  me, 
Fu'  kind  that  day. 

Wi'  bonnet  aff,  quoth  I :  "  Sweet  lass. 

I  think  ye  seem  to  ken  me  ; 
I  'm  sure  I  've  seen  that  bonny  face, 

But  yet  I  canna  name  ye." 
Quo'  she,  and  laugh  in'  as  she  spak, 

And  taks  me  by  the  hands : 


256  THE  HOLY  FAIR. 

u  Ye,  for  my  sake,  hae  gien  the  feck 
Of  a"1  the  ten  commands 

A  screed  some  day. 

"  My  name  is  Fun  —  your  cronie  dear, 

The  nearest  friend  ye  hae  ; 
And  this  is  Superstition  here, 

And  that 's  Hypocrisy. 
I  'm  gaun  to  Mauchline  Holy  Fair, 

To  spend  an  hour  in  dafnn' : 
Gin  ye  '11  go  there,  yon  runkled  pair, 

We  will  get  famous  laughin' 
At  them  this  day." 

Quoth  I :  "  With  a'  my  heart,  I  '11  do 't  5 

I  '11  get  my  Sunday's  sark  on, 
And  meet  you  on  the  holy  spot  — 

Faith,  we  'se  hae  fine  remarkin' !  " 
Then  I  gaed  hame  at  crowdie-time, 

And  soon  I  made  me  ready  ; 
For  roads  were  clad,  from  side  to  side, 

Wi'  mony  a  weary  body, 

In  droves  that  day. 

Here  farmers  gash,  in  ridin'  graith, 

Gaed  hoddin  by  their  cotters ; 
There,  swankies  young,  in  braw  braid  claith, 

Are  springin'  o'er  the  gutters. 
The  lasses,  skelpin'  bare/it,  thrang, 

In  silks  and  scarlets  glitter  ; 
Wi'  sweet-milk  cheese,  in  monie  a  whang, 

And  farls  baked  wi'  butter, 

Fu'  crump  that  day 


THE   HOLY  FAIR.  257 

When  by  the  plate  we  set  our  nose, 

Weel  heaped  up  wi'  ha'pence, 
A  greedy  glowr  Black-bonnet  throws, 

And  we  maun  draw  our  tippence. 
Then  in  we  go  to  see  the  show  ; 

On  every  side  they  're  gath'rin', 
Some  carrying  dails,  some  chairs,  and  stools, 

And  some  are  busy  blcthrin' 

Right  loud  that  day. 

Here  stands  a  shed  to  fend  the  showers, 

And  screen  our  country  gentry, 
There,  Racer  Jess,  and  twa-three  w s, 

Are  blinkin'  at  the  entry. 
Here  sits  a  raw  of  tittlin'  jauds, 

Wi'  heaving  breast  and  bare  neck, 
And  there  a  batch  o'  wabster  lads, 

Blackguarding  frae  Kilmarnock 
For  fun  this  day. 

Here,  some  are  thinkin'  on  their  sins, 

And  some  upo'  their  claes ; 
Ane  curses  feet  that  fyl'd  his  shins, 

Anither  sighs  and  prays  : 
On  this  hand  sits  a  chosen  swatch, 

Wi'  screwcd-up,  grace-proud  faces  ; 
On  that  a  set  o'  chaps  at  watch, 

Thrang  winkin'  on  the  lasses 
To  chairs  that  day. 

Oh  happy  is  that  man  and  blest ! 
Nae  wonder  that  it  jn-ide  him, 
Wha'a  ain  dear  lass,  that  he  likes  best, 
vol.  i  17 


258  THE  HOLY  FAIR. 

Comes  clinkln'  down  beside  him  \ 
Wi'  arm  reposed  on  the  chair-back, 

He  sweetly  does  compose  him  ; 
Which,  by  degrees,  slips  round  her  neck, 

An 's  loof  upon  her  bosom, 

Unkenn'd  that  day. 

Now  a'  the  congregation  o'er 

Is  silent  expectation  : 
For  Moodie  speels  the  holy  door, 

Wi'  tidings  o'  d -tion.1 

Should  Hornie,  as  in  ancient  days, 

'Mang  sons  o'  God  present  him, 
The  very  sight  o'  Moodie's  face 

To 's  ain  het  hame  had  sent  him 
Wi'  fright  that  day. 

Hear  how  he  clears  the  points  o'  Faith 

Wi'  rattlin'  and  wi'  thumpin' ! 
Now  meekly  calm,  now  wild  in  wrath, 

He 's  stampin'  and  he 's  jumpin' ! 
His  lengthened  chin,  his  turned-up  snout, 

His  eldritch  squeel  and  gestures, 
Oh  how  they  fire  the  heart  devout, 

Like  cantharidian  plasters, 
On  sic  a  day  ! 

But  hark  !  the  tent  has  changed  its  voice ; 

There 's  peace  and  rest  nae  langer ; 
For  a'  the  real  judges  rise, 

1  In  the  Kilmarnock  edition,  the  word  was  salvation:  it  was 
changed  at  the  suggestion  of  Dr  Blair  of  Edinburgh.  Moodie 
was  the  minister  of  Kiccarton,  and  one  of  the  heroes  of  The  Tieo 
Herds, 


TEE  HOLY  FAIR.  259 

They  canna  sit  for  anger. 
Smith  opens  out  his  cauld  harangues, 

On  practice  and  on  morals  ; 
And  aff  the  godly  pour  in  thrangs, 

To  gie  the  jars  and  barrels 
A  lift  that  day. 

What  signifies  his  barren  shine 

Of  moral  powers  and  reason  ? 
His  English  style  and  gesture  fine 

Are  a'  clean  out  o'  season. 
Like  Socrates  or  Antonine, 

Or  some  auld  pagan  heathen, 
The  moral  man  he  does  define, 

But  ne'er  a  word  o'  faith  in 

That 's  right  that  day. 

In  guid  time  comes  an  antidote 

Against  sic  poisoned  nostrum  ; 
For  Peebles,  frae  the  Water-fit, 

Ascends  the  holy  rostrum  : 
See,  up  he  's  got  the  Word  o*  God, 

And  meek  and  mini  has  viewed  it, 
While  Common  Sense  has  ta'en  the  road, 

And  aff  and  Tip  the  Cowgate, 
Fast,  fast  that  day. 

Wee  Miller  nicst  the  guard  relieves, 

And  orthodoxy  raibles, 
Though  in  his  heart  he  weel  believes, 

And  thinks  it  auld  wives'  fables : 
But,  faith  !  the  birkie  wants  a  manse, 

So,  cannily  he  hums  them  ; 


260  THE  HOLY  FAIR. 

Although  his  carnal  wit  and  sense 
Like  hafflins-ways  o'ercomes  him 
At  times  that  day 

Now  but  and  ben  the  change-house  fills, 

Wi'  yill-caup  commentators ; 
Here 's  crying  out  for  bakes  and  gills, 

And  there  the  pint-stoup  clatters  ; 
While  thick  and  thrang,  and  loud  and  lang, 

Wi'  logic  and  wi'  scripture, 
They  raise  a  din,  that,  in  the  end, 

Is  like  to  breed  a  rupture 

O'  wrath  that  day. 

Leeze  me  on  drink  !  it  gies  us  mair 

Than  either  school  or  college  : 
It  kindles  wit,  it  waukens  lair, 

It  pangs  us  fou  o'  knowledge. 
Be  't  whisky  gill,  or  penny  wheep, 

Or  ony  stronger  potion, 
It  never  fails,  on  drinking  deep, 

To  kittle  up  our  notion 

By  night  or  day. 

The  lads  and  lasses,  blithely  bent 

To  mind  baith  saul  and  body, 
Sit  round  the  table  weel  content, 

And  steer  about  the  toddy. 
On  this  ane's  dress,  and  that  ane's  leuk, 

They  're  making  observations 
While  some  are  cozie  i'  the  neuk, 

And  formin'  assignations 

To  meet  some  day. 


THE  HOLY  FAIR.  2G1 

But  now  the  L — 's  ain  trumpet  touts, 

Till  a'  the  hills  are  rairin', 
And  echoes  back  return  the  shouts  — 

Black  Russell  is  na  sparin' : 
His  piercing  words,  like  Highland  swords, 

Divide  the  joints  and  marrow  ; 
His  talk  o'  hell,  whare  devils  dwell, 

Our  vera  sauls  does  harrow 

Wi'  fright  that  day. 

A  vast,  unbottomcd,  boundless  pit, 

Filled  fou  o'  lowin'  brunstane, 
Wha's  ragin'  tlame,  and  scorchin'  heat, 

Wad  melt  the  hardest  whunstane  . 
The  half-asleep  start  up  wi'  fear, 

And  think  they  hear  it  roarin', 
"When  presently  it  does  appear 

'T  was  but  some  neebor  snorin', 
Asleep  that  day. 

'T  wad  be  owre  lang  a  tale  to  tell 

How  monie  stories  past, 
And  how  the}'  crowded  to  the  yill, 

When  they  were  a'  dismist : 
How  drink  gaed  round,  in  cogs  and  caups, 

Amang  the  forms  and  benches  : 
And  cheese  and  bread,  frae  women's  laps, 

Was  dealt  about  in  lunches, 

And  dauds  that  day. 

In  comes  a  gaucy,  gash  guidwife, 

And  sits  down  by  the  fire, 
Syne  draws  her  kebbuck  and  her  knife ; 


202  THE  HOLY  FAIR. 

The  lasses  they  are  shyer. 
The  auld  guidmen,  about  the  grace, 

Frae  side  to  side  they  bother, 
Till  some  ane  by  his  bonnet  lays, 

And  gies  them 't  like  a  tether, 
Fu'  lang  that  day. 

Waesucks !  for  him  that  gets  nae  lass, 

Or  lasses  that  hae  naething ! 
Sma'  need  has  he  to  say  a  grace, 

Or  melvie  his  braw  claithing ! 
Oh  wives,  be  mindfu'  ance  yoursel' 

How  bonny  lads  ye  wanted, 
And  dinna,  for  a  kebbuck-heel, 

Let  lasses  be  affronted 

On  sic  a  day  ! 

Now  Clinkumbell,1  wi'  rattlin'  tow, 

Begins  to  jow  and  croon ; 
Some  swagger  hame,  the  best  they  dow, 

Some  wait  the  afternoon. 
At  slaps  the  billies  halt  a  blink, 

Till  lasses  strip  their  shoon  : 
Wi'  faith  and  hope,  and  love  and  drink, 

They  're  a'  in  famous  tune 

For  crack  that  day. 

How  monie  hearts  this  day  converts 

O'  sinners  and  o'  lasses  ! 
Their  hearts  o'  stane,  gin  night,  are  gana 

As  saft  as  ony  flesh  is. 
There 's  some  are  fou  o'  love  divine ; 

1  Variation  —  "  Now  Robin  Gib,"  etc. 


ON  A   SCOTCH  BARD.  2G3 

There  's  pome  arc  fou  o'  brandy  ; 
And  monie  jobs  that  day  begin 
May  end  in  houghmagandy 
Some  ither  day. 


ON  A  SCOTCH  BARD, 

GONE   TO  THE   WEST  INDIES. 

A  '  YE  wha  live  by  sowps  o'  drink, 
A'  ye  wha  live  by  crambo-clink, 
A*  ye  wha  live  and  never  think, 
Come,  mourn  wi'  me ! 
Our  billie  's  gien  us  a'  a  jink, 
And  owre  the  sea 

Lament  him  a'  ye  rantin*  core, 
Wha  dearly  like  a  random-splore, 
Nae  mair  he  '11  join  the  merry  roar 

In  social  key ; 
For  now  he's  ta'en  anither  shore, 

And  owre  the  sea  ! 

Auld  cantie  Kyle  may  weepers  wear, 
And  stain  them  wi'  the  saut,  saut  tear; 
'Twill  mak  her  poor  auld  heart,  I  fear, 

In  flinders  flee  ; 
He  was  her  laureate  monie  a  year, 

That 's  owre  the  sea. 

He  saw  misfortune's  cauld  nor-west 
Lang  mustering  up  a  bitter  blast ; 


264  ON  A   SCOTCH  BARD. 

A  jillet  brak  his  heart  at  last, 

111  may  she  be ! 
So,  took  a  berth  afore  the  mast, 

And  owre  the  sea. 

To  tremble  under  Fortune's  cummock, 
On  scarce  a  bellyfu'  o'  drummock, 
Wi'  his  proud,  independent  stomach, 

Could  ill  agree ; 
So  row't  his  hurdies  in  a  hammock, 

And  owre  the  sea. 

He  ne'er  was  gien  to  great  misguiding, 
Yet  coin  his  pouches  wadna  bide  in ; 
Wi'  him  it  ne'er  was  under  hiding  — 

He  dealt  it  free : 
The  Muse  was  a'  that  he  took  pride  in, 

That 's  owre  the  sea, 

Jamaica  bodies,  use  him  weel, 
And  hap  him  in  a  cozie  biel : 
Ye  '11  find  him  aye  a  dainty  chiel, 

And  fou  o'  glee  ; 
He  wadna  wranged  the  very  deil, 

That 's  owre  the  sea. 

Fareweel,  my  rhyme-composing  billie 
Your  native  soil  was  right  ill-willie ; 
3ut  may  ye  flourish  like  a  lily, 

Now  bonnilie  ! 
I  '11  toast  ye  in  my  hinmost  gillie, 
Though  owre  the  sea  J 


A  BARD'S  EPITAPH.  205 


A  BARD'S  EPITAPH. 

TS  there  a  whim-inspired  fool, 

Owre  fast  lor  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 
Owre  blate  to  seek,  owre  proud  to  snool, 

Let  him  draw  near  ; 
And  owre  this  grassy  heap  sing  dool, 
And  drap  a  tear. 

Is  there  a  bard  of  rustie  song, 

Who,  noteless,  steals  the  crowds  among, 

That  weekly  this  area  throng, 

Oh,  pass  not  by  ! 
But,  with  a  frater-feeling  strong, 

Here  heave  a  sigh. 

Is  there  a  man,  whose  judgment  clear, 
Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer, 
Yet  runs  himself  life's  mad  career, 

Wild  as  the  wave  ; 
Here  pause  —  and,  through  the  starting  tear 

Survey  this  grave. 

The  poor  inhabitant  below, 

Was  quick  to  learn,  and  wise  to  know, 

And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow, 

And  softer  flame  ; 
But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low, 

And  stained  his  name  1 

Reader,  attend  —  whether  thy  soid 
Soars  fancy's  flights  beyond  the  pole, 


DEDICATION    TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON. 

Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole, 

In  low  pursuit ; 
Know,  prudent,  cautious  self-control 

Is  wisdom's  root. 


DEDICATION  TO  GAVIN    HAMILTON,  Esq. 

"C^XPECT  na,  sir,  in  this  narration, 

A  fleechin,  fleth'rin  dedication, 
To  roose  you  up,  and  ca'  you  guid, 
And  sprung  o'  great  and  noble  bluid, 
Because  ye  're  surnamed  like  his  Grace 
Perhaps  related  to  the  race  ; 
Then  when  I  'm  tired,  and  sae  are  ye, 
Wi'  monie  a  fulsome,  sinfu'  lie, 
Set  up  a  face,  how  I  stop  short, 
For  fear  your  modesty  be  hurt. 

This  may  do  —  maun  do,  sir,  wi'  them  wha 
Maun  please  the  great  folk  for  a  wamefou ; 
For  me  !  sae  laigh  I  needna  bow, 
For,  L —  be  thankit,  I  can  plough  ; 
And  when  I  downa  yoke  a  naig, 
Then,  L —  be  thankit,  I  can  beg ; 
Sae  I  shall  say,  and  that 's  nae  llatterin', 
It 's  just  sic  poet,  and  sic  patron. 

The  Poet,  some  guid  angel  help  him, 
Or  else,  I  fear,  some  ill  ane  skelp  him. 
He  may  do  weel  for  a'  he  's  done  yet, 
But  only  he  's  no  just  begun  yet. 


DEDICA  Tl  ON   TO   GA  I  "IN  HA  MIL  T  0  N.      267 

The  Patron  (sir.  ye  maun  fbrgie  me, 
I  winna  lie,  come  what  will  o'  me), 
On  every  hand  it  will  allowed  be, 
He's  just  —  nae  better  than  he  should  be. 

I  readily  and  freely  grant, 
He  downa  see  a  poor  man  want 
What 's  no  his  ain  he  winna  tak  it, 
What  ance  he  says  he  winna  break  it ; 
Ought  he  can  lend  he  '11  no  refus't 
Till  aft  his  gudeness  is  abused  ; 
And  rascals  whiles  that  do  him  wrang, 
Even  that,  he  does  na  mind  it  lang  : 
As  master,  landlord,  husband,  fatner, 
lie  does  na  fail  his  part  in  either. 

But  then  nae  thanks  to  him  for  a'  that, 
Nae  godly  symptom  ye  can  ca'  that ; 
It 's  naething  but  a  milder  feature 
Of  our  poor  sinfu',  corrupt  nature  : 
Ye  '11  get  the  best  o'  moral  works, 
'Mang  black  Gentoos  and  pagan  Turks, 
Or  hunters  wild  on  Ponotaxi. 
Wha  never  heard  of  orthodoxy. 
That  he  's  the  poor  man's  friend  in  need. 
The  gentleman  in  word  and  deed, 

It 's  no  through  terror  of  d tion  ; 

It's  just  a  carnal  inclination. 

Morality,  thou  deadly  bane, 
Thy  tens  o'  thousands  thou  hast  slain  I 
Vain  is  his  hope  whose  stay  and  trust  is 
In  moral  mercy,  truth,  and  justice  1 


268    DEDICATION  TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON. 

No  —  stretch  a  point  to  catch  a  plack  ", 
Abuse  a  brother  to  his  back  , 

Steal  through  a  winnock  frae  a  w , 

But  point  the  rake  that  taks  the  door ; 
Be  to  the  poor  like  ony  whunstane, 
And  haud  their  noses  to  the  grunstane  ; 
Ply  every  art  o'  legal  thieving ; 
No  matter  —  stick  to  sound  believing  ! 

Learn  three-mile  prayers,  and  half-mile  graces, 

Wi'  weel-spread  looves,  and  lang  wry  faces ; 

Grunt  up  a  solemn,  lengthened  groan, 

And  d —  a'  parties  but  your  own ; 

I  '11  warrant,  then,  ye  're  nae  deceiver  — 

A  steady,  sturdy,  stanch  believer. 

Oh  ye  wha  leave  the  springs  o'  Calvin, 
For  gumlie  dubs  of  your  ain  delvin' ! 
Ye  sons  of  heresy  and  error, 
Ye  '11  some  day  squeal  in  quaking  terror ! 
When  Vengeance  draws  the  sword  in  wrath, 
And  in  the  fire  throws  the  sheath ; 
When  Ruin,  with  his  sweeping  besom, 
Just  frets,  till  Heaven  commission  gies  him : 
While  o'er  the  harp  pale  Misery  moans, 
And  strikes  the  ever-deepening  tones, 
Still  louder  shrieks,  and  heavier  groans  t 

Your  pardon,  sir,  for  this  digression, 
I  maist  forgot  my  dedication  ; 
But  when  divinity  comes  'cross  me, 
My  readers  still  are  sure  to  lose  me. 


DEDICATION  TO   GAVIN  HAMILTON.    269 

So,  sir,  ye  see  't  was  nae  daft  vapour, 
But  I  maturely  thought  it  proper, 
When  a'  my  works  I  did  review. 
To  dedicate  them,  sir,  to  you  : 
Because  (ye  need  na  tak  it  ill) 
I  thought  them  something  like  yoursel*. 

Then  patronise  them  wi'  your  favour, 

And  your  petitioner  shall  ever 

I  had  amaist  said,  ever  pray, 

But  that 's  a  word  I  need  na  say  : 

For  prayin'  I  hae  little  skill  o'  't ; 

I  'm  baith  dead  sweer,  and  wretched  ill  o"t ; 

But  I  'se  repeat  each  poor  man's  prayer 

That  kens  or  hears  about  you,  sir  :  — 

"  May  ne'er  Misfortune's  gowling  bark 
Howl  through  the  dwelling  o'  the  Clerk ! 
May  ne'er  his  generous,  honest  heart, 
For  that  same  generous  spirit  smart ! 
May  Kennedy's  far-honoured  name 
Lang  beat  his  hymeneal  flame, 
Till  Hamiltons,  at  least  a  dizzen, 
Are  by  their  canty  fireside  risen : 
Five  bonny  lasses  round  their  table, 
And  seven  braw  fellows,  stout  and  able, 
To  serve  their  king  and  country  weel, 
By  word,  or  pen,  or  pointed  steel ! 
May  health  and  peace,  with  mutual  rays, 
Shine  on  the  evening  o'  his  days, 
Till  his  wee  curlie  John's  ier-oe, 
When  ebbing  life  nae  mair  shall  flow, 
The  last,  sad  mournful  rites  bestow." 


270     FAREWELL   TO  ST.  JAMES'S  LODGE. 

I  will  not  wind  a  lang  conclusion 
With  complimentary  effusion : 
But  whilst  your  wishes  and  endeavours 
Are  blest  wi'  fortune's  smiles  and  favours, 
I  am,  dear  sir,  with  zeal  most  fervent, 
Your  much  indebted,  humble  servant. 

But  if  (which  powers  above  prevent !) 

That  iron-hearted  carl,  Want, 

Attended  in  his  grim  advances 

By  sad  mistakes  and  black  mischances, 

While  hopes,  and  joys,  and  pleasures  fly  him, 

Make  you  as  poor  a  dog  as  I  am, 

Your  humble  servant  then  no  more ; 

For  who  would  humbly  serve  the  poor  ? 

But  by  a  poor  man's  hopes  in  Heaven ! 

While  recollection's  power  is  given, 

If,  in  the  vale  of  humble  life, 

The  victim  sad  of  fortune's  strife, 

I,  through  the  tender-gushing  tear, 

Should  recognise  my  master  dear, 

If  friendless,  low,  we  meet  together, 

Then,  sir,  your  hand  —  my  friend  and  brother  ' 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  BRETHREN  OF  ST.  JAMES'S 
LODGE,  TORBOLTON. 

Tune  —  Good-night,  and  Joy  be  wV  you  a?. 

A  DIEU  !  a  heart-warm,  fond  adieu  I 
"^^  Dear  brothers  of  the  mystic  tie  1 
Ye  favoured,  ye  enlightened  few, 
Companions  of  my  social  joy 


FAREWELL   TO  ST.  JAMES'S   LODGE.    271 

Though  I  to  foreign  lands  must  hie, 
Pursuing  Fortune's  slidd'ry  ba', 

With  melting  heart,  and  brimful  eye, 
I  '11  mind  you  still,  though  far  awa\ 

Oft  have  I  met  your  social  band, 

And  spent  the  cheerful,  festive  night ; 
Oft,  honoured  with  supreme  command, 

Presided  o'er  the  Sons  of  Light  : 
And  by  that  hieroglyphic  bright 

Which  none  but  Craftsmen  ever  saw  ! 
Strong  Memory  on  my  heart  shall  write 

Those  happy  scenes  when  far  awa\ 

May  Freedom,  Harmony,  and  Love, 

Unite  you  in  the  grand  design, 
Beneath  the  Omniscient  Eye  above, 

The  glorious  Architect  Divine  ! 
That  you  may  keep  the  unerring  line, 

Still  rising  by  the  plummet's  law, 
Till  Order  bright  completely  shine, 

Shall  be  my  prayer  when  far  awa*. 

And  you,  farewell !  whose  merits  claim, 

Justly,  that  highest  badge  to  wear ! 
Heaven  bless  your  honoured,  noble  name, 

To  masonry  and  Scotia  dear ! 
A  last  request  permit  me  here, 

When  yearly  ye  assemble  a', 
One  round  —  I  ask  it  with  a  tear  — 

To  liim,  the  Bard  thai  V  far  avxC. 


272  THE  SONS  OF    OLD  KILLIE. 


ON  A  PROCESSION  OF  THE  ST.  JAMES'S  LODGE 

TD^RTDAY  first's  the  day  appointed 
By  the  Right  Worshipful  anointed, 
To  hold  our  grand  procession  ; 
To  get  a  blad  o'  Johnnie's  morals, 
And  taste  a  swatch  o'  Manson's  barrels. 

I'  the  way  of  our  profession. 
The  Master  and  the  Brotherhood 

Would  a'  be  glad  to  see  you ; 
For  me  I  would  be  mair  than  proud 
To  share  the  mercies  wi'  you. 
If  Death,  then,  wi'  skaith,  then, 
Some  mortal  heart  is  hechtin', 
Inform  him,  and  storm  him, 

That  Saturday  you  '11  fecht  him. 

Robert  Burns. 


THE  SONS   OF   OLD  KILLIE. 

Tone — Shawnboy. 

V"E  sons  of  old  Killie,  assembled  by  Willie, 

To  follow  the  noble  vocation ; 
Your  thrifty  old  mother  has  scarce  such  another 

To  sit  in  that  honoured  station. 
I  've  little  to  say,  but  only  to  pray, 

As  praying 's  the  ton  of  your  fashion ; 
A  prayer  from  the  Muse  you  well  may  excuse, 

'T  is  seldom  her  favourite  passion. 

Ye  powers  who  preside  o'er  the  wind  and  the  tide3 
Who  marked  each  element's  border  \ 


THE  BONNIE  LASS    0'  BALLOCHMYLE.    273 

Who  formed  this  frame  with  beneficent  aim, 

Whose  sovereign  statute  is  order ; 
Within  this  dear  mansion  may  wayward  Contention 

Or  withered  Envy  ne'er  enter  ; 
May  Secrecy  round  be  the  mystical  bound, 

And  Brotherly  Love  be  the  centre. 


THE  BONNIE  LASS  0'  BALLOCHMYLE. 

,f~V\  WAS  even  —  the  dewy  fields  were  green, 

On  every  blade  the  pearls  hang ! 
The  Zephyr  wantoned  round  the  bean, 

And  bore  its  fragrant  sweets  alang  ; 
In  every  glen  the  mavis  sang, 

All  nature  listening  seemed  the  while, 
Except  where  greenwood  echoes  rang, 

Amang  the  braes  o'  Ballochmyle. 

With  careless  step  I  onward  strayed, 

My  heart  rejoiced  in  Nature's  joy, 
When,  musing  in  a  lonely  glade, 

A  maiden  fair  I  chanced  to  spy. 
Her  look  was  like  the  morning's  eye, 

Her  air  like  Nature's  vernal  smile, 
Perfection  whispered  passing  by, 

Behold  the  lass  o'  Ballochmyle  ! 1 

Fair  is  the  morn  in  flowery  May, 

And  sweet  is  night  in  Autumn  mild, 

!  Variation  — 

The  lily's  hue  and  rose's  dye 

Bespoke  the  lass  o'  liallochmyle. 

VOL.    I.  18 


274  TO  MR.  KENNEDY. 

When  roving  through  the  garden  gay, 
Or  wandering  in  the  lonely  "wild : 

But  woman,  Nature's  darling  child  ! 
There  all  her  charms  she  does  compile 

Even  there  her  other  works  are  foiled 
By  the  bonnie  lass  o'  Ballochmyle. 

Oh,  had  she  been  a  country  maid, 

And  I  the  happy  country  swain, 
Though  sheltered  in  the  lowest  shed 

That  ever  rose  on  Scotland's  plain, 
Through  weary  winter's  wind  and  rain, 

With  joy,  with  rapture,  I  would  toil, 
And  nightly  to  my  bosom  strain 

The  bonnie  lass  o'  Ballochmyle. 

Then  pride  might  climb  the  slippery  steep. 

Where  fame  and  honours  lofty  shine ; 
And  thirst  of  gold  might  tempt  the  deep, 

Or  downward  seek  the  Indian  nine; 
Give  me  the  cot  below  the  pine, 

To  tend  the  flocks,  or  till  the  soil, 
And  every  day  has  joys  divine 

With  the  bonnie  lass  o'  Ballochmyle 


TO  MR.  JOHN   KENNEDY. 

"C^  ARE  WELL,  dear  friend  !   may  guid-luck  hit 

you, 
And  'mang  her  favourites  admit  you. 


THE  FAREWELL.  275 

If  e'er  Detraction  shore  to  smit  you, 
May  nane  believe  him, 

And  ony  deil  that  thinks  to  get  you, 
Good  L — ,  deceive  him 


THE  FAREWELL. 

"  The  valiant,  in  himself,  what  can  he  (suffer? 
Or  what  does  he  regard  his  single  woes? 
But  when,  alas  !  he  multiplies  himself, 
To  dearer  selves,  to  the  loved  tender  fair. 
To  those  whose  bliss,  whose  being  hangs  upon  him, 
To  helpless  children  !  —  then,  oh  then  !   he  feels 
The  point  of  misery  festering  in  his  heart, 
And  weakly  weeps  his  fortune  like  a  coward. 
Such,  such  am  I !  undone  !  " 

Thomson^  Edward  and  Eleanma. 

"P  ARE  WELL,  Old  Scotia's  bleak  domains, 
Far  dearer  than  the  torrid  plains 
Where  rich  ananas  blow  ! 
Farewell,  a  mother's  blessing  dear  1 
A  brother's  sigh  !  a  sister's  tear  ! 

My  Jean's  heart-rending  throe  ! 
Farewell,  my  Bess  !  though  thou  'rt  bereft 

Of  my  parental  care, 
A  faithful  brother  I  have  left, 
My  part  in  him  thou  'It  share  ! 
Adieu  too,  to  you  too, 

My  Smith,  my  bosom  fHen' ; 
When  kindly  you  mind  me, 
Oh  then  befriend  my  Jean  1 

What  bursting  anguish  tears  my  heart 
From  thee,  my  Jeanie,  must  I  part  ? 


276    LINES    WRITTEN   ON  A  BANK-NOTE. 

Thou,  weeping,  answ'rest  "  No  !  " 
Alas  !  misfortune  stares  my  face, 
And  points  to  ruin  and  disgrace  ; 

I  for  thy  sake  must  go  ! 
Thee,  Hamilton,  and  Aiken  dear, 

A  grateful,  warm  adieu  ! 
I,  with  a  much-indebted  tear, 
Shall  still  remember  you  ! 
All-hail  then,  the  gale  then, 

Wafts  me  from  thee,  dear  shore  ! 
It  rustles,  and  whistles  — 
I  '11  never  see  thee  more  ! 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  A  BANK-NOTE.l 

"VX7"AE  worth  thy  power,  thou  cursed  leaf, 

Fell  source  o'  a'  my  wo  and  grief: 
For  lack  o'  thee  I  've  lost  my  lass, 
For  lack  o'  thee  I  scrimp  my  glass ; 
I  see  the  children  of  affliction 
Unaided,  through  thy  cursed  restriction. 
I've  seen  the  oppressor's  cruel  smile 
Amid  his  hapless  victim's  spoil, 
And,  for  thy  potence,  vainly  wished 
To  crush  the  villain  in  the  dust. 
For  lack  o'  thee  I  leave  this  much-loved  shore, 
Never  perhaps  to  greet  old  Scotland  more. 

R.  B.  — Kyle. 

1  "  The  above  verses,  in  the  handwriting  of  Burns,  are  copied 
from  a  bank-note,  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  James  P.  Gracie  of 
Dumfries  The  note  is  of  the  Bank  of  Scotland,  and  is  dated  so 
far  back  as  1st  March,  l"80.v  —  Mothhrwell. 


VERBE8.  277 


WRITTEN 

ON    A     HUNK     LEAF    OF    A    COPY    OF    THE    POEMS    FRE- 
SENTKD  TO   AN  OLD    SWEETHEART,  THEN   MARRIED. 

/~\NCE  fondly  loved,  and  still  remembered  dear, 

Sweet  early  object  of  my  youthful  vows  i 
Accept  this  mark  of  friendship,  warm,  sincere  — 
Friendship !  't  is  all  cold  duty  now  allows. 

And  when  you  read  the  simple  artless  rhymes, 
One  friendly  sigh  for  him  —  he  asks  no  more. 

Who  distant  burns  in  llaming  ton-id  climes, 
Or  haply  lies  beneath  the  Atlantic's  roar. 


VERSES   WRITTEN  UNDER  VIOLENT  GRIEF. 

A  CCEPT  the  gift  a  friend  sincere 
-^^  Wad  on  thy  worth  be  pressin' ; 
Remembrance  oft  may  start  a  tear, 
But  oh  !  that  tenderness  forbear, 
Though  't  wad  my  soitows  lessen. 

My  morning  raise  sae  clear  and  fair, 
]  thought  sair  storms  wad  nevei 

Bedew  the  scene  ;  but  grief  and  care 

In  wildest  fury  hae  made  bare 
My  peace,  my  hope,  for  ever  ! 


278  THE   CALF. 

You  think  I  'm  glad ;  oh,  I  pay  weel 

For  a'  the  joy  I  borrow. 
In  solitude  —  then,  then  I  feel 
I  canna  to  myseP  conceal 

My  deeply-ranklin'  sorrow. 

Farewell !  within  thy  bosom  free 

A  sigh  may  whiles  awaken  ; 
A  tear  may  wet  thy  laughin'  e'e, 
For  Scotia's  son  —  ance  gay  like  thee  - 
Now  hopeless,  comfortless,  forsaken  ! 


THE  CALF. 

TO   THE   REV.    ME.   JAMES   STEVEN, 

On  hia  Text,  Malachi  iv.  2.  —  "  And  ye  shall  go  forth,  and  grow 
up  as  calves  of  the  stall." 

T>  IGHT,  sir !  your  text  I  '11  prove  it  true, 

Though  heretics  may  laugh: 
For  instance,  there 's  yoursel'  j  ust  now, 
God  knows,  an  unco  calf! 

And  should  some  patron  be  so  kind, 

As  bless  you  wi'  a  kirk, 
I  doubt  na,  sir,  but  then  we  '11  find 

Ye  're  still  as  great  a  stirk. 

But  if  the  lover's  raptured  hour 

Shall  ever  be  your  lot, 
Forbid  it,  every  lieavenly  power, 

You  e'er  should  be  a  stot ! 


WILLIE   CHALMERS.  279 

Though,  when  some  kind,  connubial  dear, 

Your  but-and-ben  adorns, 
The  like  has  been  that  you  may  wear 

A  noble  head  of  horns. 

And  in  your  lug,  most  reverend  James, 

To  hear  you  roar  and  rowte, 
Few  men  o'  sense  will  doubt  ycur  claims 

To  rank  amang  the  nowte. 

And  when  ye  're  numbered  wi'  the  dead, 

Below  a  grassy  hillock, 
Wi'  justice  they  may  mark  your  head  — 

"  Here  lies  a  famous  bullock  ! " 


WILLIE   CHALMERS. 

X\TI'  braw  new  branks  in  mickle  pride, 

'  '     And  eke  a  braw  new  brechar, 
My  Pegasus  I  'in  got  astride, 

And  up  Parnassus  pechin' ; 
Whiles  owrc  a  bush  wi'  downward  crush, 

The  doited  beastie  stammers ; 
Then  up  he  gets,  and  off  he  sets, 

For  sake  o'  Willie  Chalmers. 

I  doubt  na,  lass,  that  weel-kenned  name 

May  cost  a  pair  o'  blushes  ; 
I  am  nae  stranger  to  your  fame, 

Nor  his  warm  urged  wishes. 
Your  bonny  face  sae  mild  and  sweet, 

His  honest  heart  enamours, 


280  WILLIE  CHALMERS. 

And  faith  ye  '11  no  be  lost  a  whit, 
Though  waired  on  Willie  Chalmers. 

Auld  Truth  hersel'  might  swear  ye  're  fair 

And  Honour  safely  back  her, 
And  Modesty  assume  your  air, 

And  ne'er  a  ane  mistak'  her : 
And  sic  twa  love-inspiring  een 

Might  fire  even  holy  palmers  ; 
Nae  wonder,  then,  they've  fatal  been 

To  honest  Willie  Chalmers. 

I  doubt  na  fortune  may  you  shore 

Some  mim-mou'd  pouthered  priestie, 
Fu'  lifted  up  wi'  Hebrew  lore, 

And  band  upon  his  breastie : 
But  oh !  what  signifies  to  you 

His  lexicons  and  grammars ; 
The  feeling  heart 's  the  royal  blue, 

And  that's  wi'  Willie  Chalmers. 

Some  gapin'  glowrin'  country  laird 

May  warsle  for  your  favour ; 
May  claw  his  lug,  and  straik  his  beard 

And  hoast  up  some  palaver. 
My  bonny  maid,  before  ye  wed 

Sic  clumsy-witted  hammers, 
Seek  Heaven  for  help,  and  barefit  skelp 

Awa'  wi'  Willie  Chalmers. 

Forgive  the  Bard  !  my  fond  regard 

For  ane  that  shares  my  bosom, 
Inspires  my  Muse  to  gie  'm  his  dues, 


TAM   SAMSON'S  ELE07.  281 

For  deil  a  hair  T  roose  him. 
May  powers  aboon  unite  you  soon, 

And  fructify  your  amours, 
And  every  year  come  in  mair  dear 

To  you  and  Willie  Chalmers. 


TAM   SAMSON'S   ELEGY. 
"  An  honest  man  's  the  noblest  work  of  God."  —  Popb 
tTAS  auld  Kilmarnock  seen  the  deil  ? 

Or  great  M'Kinlay  thrawn  his  heel  ? 
Or  Robertson  again  grown  weel 

To  preach  and  read  ? 
"  Na,  waur  than  a' !  "  cries  ilka  chiel  — 
Tarn  Samson 's  dead  ! 

Kilmarnock  lang  may  grunt  and  grane, 
And  sigh,  and  sob,  and  greet  her  lane, 
And  deed  her  bairns,  man,  wife,  and  weaiij 

In  mourning  weed ; 
To  Death  she  's  dearly  paid  the  kane  — 

Tarn  Samson  's  dead  ! 

The  brethren  o'  the  mystic  level 
May  hing  their  head  in  woefu'  bevel, 
While  by  their  nose  the  tears  will  revel, 

Like  ony  bead ; 
Death  's  gien  the  lodge  an  unco  devel  — 

Tam  Samson  's  dead  ! 

When  Winter  muffles  up  his  cloak, 
And  binds  the  mire  like  a  rock  ; 


282  TAM   SAMSON'S  ELEGY. 

When  to  the  loch  the  curlers  flock, 
Wi'  gleesome  speed, 

Wha  will  they  station  at  the  cock  ?  — 
Tarn  Samson 's  dead  ! 

He  was  the  king  o'  a'  the  core, 
To  guard,  or  draw,  or  wick  a  bore, 
Or  up  the  rink  like  Jehu  roar 

In  time  o'  need  ; 
But  now  he  lags  on  Death's  hog-score  — 

Tam  Samson 's  dead  ! 

Now  safe  the  stately  sawmont  sail, 
And  trouts  be-dropped  wi'  crimson  hail, 
And  eels  weel  kenned  for  souple  tail, 

And  geds  for  greed, 
Since  dark  in  Death's  fish-creel  we  wail 

Tam  Samson  dead ! 

Rejoice,  ye  birring  paitricks  a' ; 
Ye  cootie  moorcocks  crously  craw  ; 
Ye  maukins,  cock  your  fud  fu'  braw, 

Withouten  dread ; 
Your  mortal  fae  is  now  awa'  — 

Tam  Samson  's  dead ! 

That  woefu'  morn  be  ever  mourned 
Saw  him  in  shootin'  graith  adorned, 
"While  pointers  round  impatient  burned, 

Frae  couples  freed  ; 
But,  och  !  he  gaed,  and  ne'er  returned !  - 

Tam  Samson  's  dead  ! 


TAM  SAMSOX'S  ELEGY.  283 

In  vain  auld  age  his  body  batters  ; 

In  vain  the  gout  his  ankles  fetters ; 

In  vain  the  burns  cam'  down  like  waters 

An  acre  braid ! 
Now  every  auld  wife,  greetin',  clatters 

Tarn  Samson  's  dead  ! 

Owre  many  a  weary  hag  he  limpit, 
And  aye  the  tither  shot  he  thumpit, 
Till  coward  Death  behind  him  jumpit, 

Wi'  deadly  feide ; 
Now  he  proclaims,  wi'  tout  o'  trumpet, 

Tarn  Samson  's  dead  1 

When  at  his  heart  he  felt  the  dagger, 
He  reeled  his  wonted  bottle-swagger, 
But  yet  he  drew  the  mortal  trigger 

Wi'  weel-aimed  heed  ; 
"  L — ,  five  !  "  he  cried,  and  owre  did  stagger  — 

Tarn  Samson  's  dead  ! 

Ilk  hoary  hunter  mourned  a  brither  ; 
Ilk  sportsman  youth  bemoaned  a  father  ; 
Yon  auld  gray  stane,  amang  the  heather, 

Marks  out  his  head, 
Where  Burns  has  wrote,  in  rhyming  blether, 

Tarn  Samson  's  dead  ! 

There  low  be  lies,  in  lasting  rest ; 
Perhaps  upon  his  mouldering  breast 
Some  spitefu'  muirfowl  bigs  her  nest, 
To  hatch  and  breed  ; 


284  TAM  SAMSON'S  ELEGY. 

Alas !  nae  mair  he  '11  them  molest !  — 
Tam  Samson 's  dead  ! 

When  August  winds  the  heather  wave, 
And  sportsmen  wander  by  yon  grave, 
Three  volleys  let  his  memory  crave 

O'  pouther  and  lead, 
Till  Echo  answer  frae  her  cave, 

Tam  Samson 's  dead  ! 

Heaven  rest  his  saul,  where'er  he  be  ! 
Is  th'  wish  o'  monie  mae  than  me  ; 
He  had  twa  fauts,  or  maybe  three, 

Yet  what  remead  ? 
Ae  social,  honest  man  want  we  : 

Tam  Samson 's  dead  ! 


Tam  Samson's  weel-worn  clay  here  lies, 
Ye  canting  zealots  spare  him  ; 

If  honest  worth  in  heaven  rise, 
Ye  '11  mend  or  ye  win  near  him. 

PER    CONTRA. 

Go,  Fame,  and  canter  like  a  fillie 
Through  a'  the  streets  and  neuks  o'  Killie ; 
Tell  every  social,  honest  billie 

To  cease  his  grievin', 
For  yet,  unskaithed  by  Death's  gleg  gullie, 

Tam  Samson  'a  leevin'  1 


EPISTLE  TO  MR.  M'ADAM.  28S 


TO  MR.  M'ADAM   OF   CRAIGENGILLAN. 

C IR,  o'er  a  gill  I  gat  your  card, 

I  trow  it  made  me  proud  ; 
"  See  wha  taks  notice  o'  the  Bard 
I  lap  and  cried  fu'  loud. 

Now  diel-ma-care  about  their  jaw 
The  senseless,  gawky  million  : 

I  '11  cock  my  nose  aboon  them  a'  — 
I  'm  roosed  by  Craigengillan  ! 

'T  was  noble,  sir  ;  't  was  like  yoursel' 
To  grant  your  high  protection  : 

A  great  man's  smile,  ye  ken  fu'  well, 
Is  aye  a  blest  infection  ;  — 

Though,  by  his  banes  who  in  a  tub 
Matched  Macedonian  Sandy  ! 

On  my  ain  legs,  through  dirt  and  dub, 
I  independent  stand  aye. 

And  when  those  legs  to  guid  warm  kail, 
Wi'  welcome  canna  bear  me, 

A  lee  dike-side,  a  sybow-tail, 

And  barley-scone,  shall  cheer  me. 

Heaven  spare  you  lang  to  kiss  the  breath 

O'  many  flowery  simmers  ! 
And  blass  your  bonny  lasses  baith  — 

I  'm  tauld  they  're  lo'esome  kbnmers  ! 


286     VERSES    WRITTEN  AT  MR.  LAWRIE8 

And  God  bless  young  Dunaskin's  laird, 

The  blossom  of  our  gentry, 
And  may  he  wear  an  auld  man's  beard, 

A  credit  to  his  country  ! 


LTING  AT  A   FRIEND'S   HOUSE   ONE   NIGHT,  THK  AUTHOR 
LEFT   THE   FOLLOWING 

VERSES 

IN    THE  BOOM    WHERE   HE   SLEPT. 

(XH-  thou  dread  Power  who  reign'st  above, 
^^  I  know  thou  wilt  me  hear, 
When  for  this  scene  of  peace  and  love 
I  make  my  prayer  sincere  ! 

The  hoary  sire  —  the  mortal  stroke, 

Long,  long  be  pleased  to  spare, 
To  bless  his  filial  little  flock, 

And  shew  what  good  men  are. 

She,  who  her  lovely  offspring  eyes 

With  tender  hopes  and  fears, 
Oh  bless  her  with  a  mother's  joys, 

But  spare  a  mother's  tears  ! 

Their  hope,  their  stay,  their  darling  youth. 

In  manhood's  dawning  blush  — 
Bless  him,  thou  God  of  love  and  truth. 

Up  to  a  parent's  wish  ! 


THE   GLOOMY  NIGHT.  2R7 

The  beauteous,  seraph  sister-band, 

With  earnest  tears  I  pray, 
Thou  know'st  the  snares  on  every  hand  — 

Guide  thou  their  steps  alway. 

When  soon  or  late  they  reach  that  coast, 

O'er  life's  rough  ocean  driven, 
May  they  rejoice,  no  wanderer  lost  — 

A  family  in  heaven  ! 1 


THE  GLOOMY  NIGHT   IS    GATHERING   FAST. 

Tunb  —  Roalin  Oastle. 

HP  HE  gloomy  night  is  gathering  fast, 

Loud  roars  the  wild  inconstant  blast; 
Yon  murky  cloud  is  foul  with  rain, 
I  see  it  driving  o'er  the  plain. 
The  hunter  now  has  left  the  moor, 
The  scattered  coveys  meet  secure ; 
While  here  I  wander,  pressed  with  care, 
Along  the  lonely  banks  of  Ayr. 

1  Miss  Louisa  Lawrie  possessed  a  scrap  of  verse  in  the  poet's 
handwriting — a  mere  trifle,  but  apparently  intended  as  part 
3f  a  lyric  description  of  the  manse  festivities.  Some  little  license 
must  be  granted  to  the  poet  with  respect  to  his  lengthening  the 
domestic  dance  so  far  into  the  night. 

The  night  was  still,  and  o'er  the  hill 
The  moon  shone  on  the  castle  wa'; 

The  mavis  sang,  while  dew-drops  hang 
Around  her,  on  the  castle  wa'. 

Sae  merrily  they  danced  the  ring, 
Frae  eenin'  till  the  cock  did  craw ; 

And  aye  the  o'erword  o'  the  spring, 
Was  Irvine"s  bairns  a-e  bonny  a' 


288  THE  BRIGS   OF  AYJi. 

The  Autumn  mourns  her  ripening  corn, 
By  early  Winter's  ravage  torn  ; 
Across  her  placid,  azure  sky, 
She  sees  the  scowling  tempest  fly  ; 
Chill  runs  my  blood  to  hear  it  rave  — 
I  think  upon  the  stormy  wave, 
Where  many  a  danger  I  must  dare, 
Far  from  the  bonny  banks  of  Ayr. 

'T  is  not  the  surging  billow's  roar, 
'T  is  not  that  fatal  deadly  shore ; 
Though  death  in  every  shape  appear, 
The  wretched  have  no  more  to  fear ! 
But  round  my  heart  the  ties  are  bound, 
That  heart  transpierced  with  many  a  wound 
These  bleed  afresh,  those  ties  I  tear, 
To  leave  the  bonny  banks  of  Ayr. 

Farewell  old  Coila's  hills  and  dales, 
Her  heathy  moors  and  winding  vales  ; 
The  scenes  where  wretched  fancy  roves, 
Pursuing  past,  unhappy  loves  ! 
Farewell,  my  friends  !  farewell,  my  foes  ! 
My  peace  with  these,  my  love  with  those : 
The  bursting  tears  my  heart  declare ; 
Farewell  the  bonny  banks  of  Ayr  1 


THE  BRIGS   OF   AYR. 

INSCRIBED   TO  JOHN   BALLANTYNE,   E8Q.,   ATS. 

T^HE  simple  Bard,  rough  at  the  rustic  plough, 

Learning  his  tuneful  trade  from  every  bough 
The  chanting  linnet,  or  the  mellow  thrush, 


THE  BRIGS   OB"  AYR  289 

Hailing  the  setting  sun,  sweet,  in  the  green  thorn- 
bush  ; 
The  soaring  lark,  the  perching  redbreast  shrill, 
Or   deep-toned   plovers,  gray,   wild-whistling   o'er 

the  hill ; 
Shall  he,  nurst  in  the  peasant's  lowly  shed, 
To  hardy  independence  bravely  bred, 
By  early  poverty  to  hardship  steeled,  • 

And  trained  to  amis  in  stern  misfortune's  field  — 
Shall  he  be  guilty  of  their  hireling  crimes, 
The  servile,  mercenary  Swiss  of  rhymes  ? 
Or  labour  hard  the  panegyric  close, 
With  all  the  venal  soul  of  dedicating  prose  ? 
No  !  though  his  artless  strains  he  rudely  sings, 
And  throws  his  hand  uncouthly  o'er  the  strings, 
He  glows  with  all  the  spirit  of  the  Bard, 
Fame,  honest  Fame,  his  great,  his  dear  reward ! 
Still,  if  some  patron's  generous  care  he  trace, 
Skilled  in  the  secret  to  bestow  with  grace, 
When  Ballantyne  befriends  his  humble  name, 
And  hands  the  rustic  stranger  up  to  Fame, 
With  heartfelt  throes  his  grateful  bosom  swells, 
The  godlike  bliss,  to  give,  alone  excels. 

'T  was  when  the  stacks  get  on  their  winter  hap, 
And  thack  and  rape  secure  the  toil-won  crap ; 
Potato  bings  are  snugged  up  frae  skaith 
Of  coining  Winter's  biting,  frosty  breath  ; 
The  bees,  rejoicing  o'er  their  summer  toils, 
Unnumbered  buds'  and  flowers'  delicious  spoils 
Sealed  up  with  frugal  care  in  massive  waxen  piles, 
Are  doomed  by  man,  that  tyrant  o'er  the  weak, 
The  death  o*  devils  smoorcd  wi'  brimstone  reek : 
vol.  i.  19 


200  THE  BRIGS   OF  AYR. 

The  thundering  guns  are  heard  on  every  side, 
The  wounded  coveys,  reeling,  scatter  wide  ; 
The  feathered  field-mates,  bound  by  Nature's  tie. 
Sires,  mothers,  children,  in  one  carnage  lie  ; 
(What  warm,  poetic  heart,  but  inly  bleeds, 
And  execrates  man's  savage,  ruthless  deeds  •) 
Nae  mair  the  flower  in  field  or  meadow  springs ; 
Nae  mair  the  grove  with  airy  concert  rings, 
Except,  perhaps,  the  robin's  whistling  glee, 
Proud  o'  the  height  o'  some  bit  half-lang  tree ; 
The  hoary  morns  precede  the  sunny  days, 
Mild,  calm,  serene,  wide  spreads  the  noontide  blaze, 
While  thick  the  gossamour  waves  wanton  in  the 
rays. 

'T  was  in  that  season,  when  a  simple  Bard, 
Unknown  and  poor,  Simplicity's  reward, 
Ae  night,  within  the  ancient  brugh  of  Ayr, 
By  whim  inspired,  or  haply  prest  wi'  care, 
He  left  his  bed,  and  took  his  wayward  route, 
And  down  by  Simpson's  wheeled  the  left-about : 
(Whether  impelled  by  all-directing  Fate, 
To  witness  what  I  after  shall  narrate ;  * 
Or  whether,  rapt  in  meditation  high, 
He  wandered  out  he  knew  not  where  or  why.) 

The  drowsy  Dungeon-clock  had  numbered  two, 
And  Wallace  Tower  had  sworn  the  fact  was  true 
The  tide-swoln  Firth,  with  sullen  sounding  roar, 

1  In  a  MS.  copy,  here  occur  two  lines  omitted  in  print : 

"  Or  penitential  pangn  for  former  wins 
\fA.  him  to  rove  by  quondam  Merran  Din's." 


THE  BRIGS   OF  AYR.  291 

Through  the  still  night  dashed  hoarse  along  the 

shore. 
All  else  was  bushed  as  Nature's  closed  e'e ; 
The  silent  moon  shone  high  o'er  tower  and  tree  , 
The  chilly  frost,  beneath  the  silver  beam, 
Crept,  gently-crusting,  o'er  the  glittering  stream  j— 
When  lo !  on  either  hand  the  listening  Bard, 
The  clanging  sugh  of  whistling  wings  is  heard; 
Two  dusky  forms  dart  through  the  midnight  air, 
Swift  as  the  gos  drives  on  the  wheeling  hare. 

Ane  on  the  Auld  Brig  his  airy  shape  uprears, 

The  ither  flutters  o'er  the  rising  piers  : 

Our  warlock  Rhymer  instantly  descried 

The  Sprites  that  owre  the  Brigs  of  Ayr  preside. 

(That  Bards  are  second-sighted  is  nae  joke, 

And  ken  the  lingo  of  the  sp'ritual  folk  ; 

Fays,  Spunkies,  Kelpies,  a',  they  can  explain  them, 

And  even  the  very  deils  they  brawly  ken  them.) 

Auld  Brig  appeared  of  ancient  Pictish  race, 

The  very  wrinkles  Gothic  in  his  face  : 

He  seemed  as  he  wi*  Time  had  warstl'd  lang, 

Yet,  teughly  doure,  he  bade  an  unco  bang. 

New  Brig  was  buskit  in  a  braw  new  coat 

That  he  at  Lon'on,  frae  ane  Adams,  got ; 

In  's  hand  five  taper  staves  as  smooth  's  a  bead, 

Wi'  virls  and  whirlygigums  at  the  head. 

The  Goth  was  stalking  round  with  anxious  search, 

Spying  the  time-worn  flaws  in  every  arch  ; 

It  chanced  his  new-come  neebor  took  his  e'e, 

And  e'en  a  vexed  and  angry  heart  had  he  I 

Wi'  thieveless  sneer  to  see  his  modish  mien, 

He,  down  the  water,  gies  him  this  guid-e'en :  — 


292  TEE  BRIGS   OF  AYR 


AULD    BRIG. 

I  doubt  na,  frien',  ye  '11  think  ye  're  nae  sheep 
shank, 
Ance  ye  were  streekit  o'er  frae  bank  to  bank, 
But  gin  ye  be  a  brig  as  auld  as  me  — ■ 
Though,  faith,  that  day  I  doubt  ye  '11  never  see  — 
There  '11  be,  if  that  date  come,  I  '11  wad  a  boddle, 
Some  fewer  whigmaleeries  in  your  noddle. 

NEW    BRIG. 

Auld  Vandal,  ye  but  shew  your  little  mense, 
Just  much  about  it  wi'  your  scanty  sense. 
Will  your  poor,  narrow  footpath  of  a  street  — 
Whare  twa  wheel -barrows    tremble    when    they 

meet  — 
Your  ruined,  formless  bulk  o'  stane  and  lime, 
Compare  wi'  bonny  brigs  o'  modern  time  ? 
There  's  men  o'  taste  would  tak  the  Ducat  Stream, 
Though  they  should  cast  the  very  sark  and  swim. 
Ere  they  would  grate  their  feelings  wi'  the  view 
Of  sic  an  ugly  Gothic  hulk  as  you. 

AULD    BRIG. 

Conceited  gowk,  puffed  up  wi'  windy  pride  ! 
This  monie  a  year  I  've  stood  the  flood  and  tide 
And  though  wi'  crazy  eild  I  'm  sair  forfairn, 
I  '11  be  a  Br.ig  when  ye  're  a  shapeless  cairn ! 
As  yet  ye  little  ken  about  the  matter, 
But  tva-three  winters  will  inform  ye  better. 
When  heavy,  dark,  continued,  a'-day  raina, 


THE  BRIGS   OF  AYR.  203 

Wi'  deepening  deluges  o'erflow  the  plains ; 

When  from  the  hills  where  springs  the  brawling 

Coil, 
Or  stately  Lugar's  mossy  fountains  boil, 
Or  where  the  Greenock  winds  his  moorland  course, 
Or  haunted  Garpal  draws  his  feeble  source, 
Aroused  by  blustering  winds  and  spotting  thowes, 
In  monie  a  torrent  down  his  snaw-broo  rowes  ; 
While  crashing  ice,  borne  on  the  roaring  speat, 
Sweeps  dams,  and  mills,  and  brigs,  a'  to  the  gate ; 
And  from  Glenbuck  down  to  the  Ratton-key 
Auld  Ayr  is  just  one  lengthened  tumbling  sea  — 
Then  down  ye  '11  hurl,  deil  nor  ye  never  rise  ! 
And  dash  the  gumlie  jaups  up  to  the  pouring  skies : 
A  lesson  sadly  teaching,  to  your  cost, 
That  Architecture's  noble  art  is  lost ! 


NEW    BRIG. 

Fine  Architecture,  trowth,  I  needs  must  say  't 
o"t! 
The  L —  be  thankit  that  we  've  tint  the  gate  o"t 
Gaunt,  ghastly,  ghaist-alluring  edifices, 
Hanging  with  threatening  jut,  like  precipices; 
O'erarching,  mouldy,  gloom-inspiring  coves, 
Supporting  roofs  fantastic,  stony  groves  : 
Windows,  and  doors  in  nameless  sculpture  drest, 
With  order,  symmetry,  or  taste  unblest ; 
Forms  like  some  bedlam  statuary's  dream, 
The  crazed  creations  of  misguided  whim ; 
Forms  might  be  worshipped  on  the  bended  knee, 
And  still  the  second  dread  command  be  free, 
Their  likeness  is  not  found  on  earth,  in  air,  or  sea 


294  TDE  BRIGS    OF  AYR. 

Mansions  that  would  disgrace  the  building  taste 
Of  any  mason  reptile,  bird  or  beast ; 
Fit  only  for  a  doited  monkish  race, 
Or  frosty  maids  forsworn  the  dear  embrace ; 
Or  cuifs  of  latter  times,  wha  held  the  notion 
That  sullen  gloom  was  sterling  true  devotion ; 
Fancies  that  our  good  Brugh  denies  protection  ! 
And  soon  may  they  expire,  unblest  with  resurrec- 
tion ! 


AULD    BRIG. 

Oh  ye,  my  dear  remembered  ancient  yealings, 
Were  ye  but  hei-e  to  share  my  wounded  feelings ! 
Ye  worthy  Proveses,  and  monie  a  Bailie, 
Wha  in  the  paths  o'  righteousness  did  toil  aye ; 
Ye  dainty  Deacons  and  ye  douce  Conveeners, 
To  whom  our  moderns  are  but  causey-cleaners ; 
Ye  godly  Councils  wha  hae  blest  this  town  ; 
Ye  godly  brethren  o'  the  sacred  gown, 
Wha  meekly  ga'e  your  hurdies  to  the  smiters  ; 
And  (what  would  now  be  strange)  ye  godly  ■writ- 
ers ; 
A'  ye  douce  folk  I  've  borne  aboon  the  broo, 
Were  ye  but  here,  what  would  ye  say  or  do  I 
How  would  your  spirits  groan  in  deep  vexation, 
To  see  each  melancholy  alteration  ; 
And  agonising,  curse  the  time  and  place 
When  ye  begat  the  base  degenerate  race  ! 
Nae  langer  reverend  men,  their  country's  glory, 
In  plain  braid  Scots  hold  forth  a  plain  braid  story 
Nae  ianger  thrifty  citizens  and  douce, 
Meet  owre  a  pint,  or  in  the  council-house  ; 


THE   BRIGS    OF  AYR.  295 

But  staumrel,  corky-headed,  graceless  gentry, 

The  herryment  and  ruin  of  the  country; 

Men  three  parts  made  by  tailors  and  by  barbers, 

Wha  waste  your  weel-hained  gear  on  d new 

brics  and  harbours  ! 


NEW    BRIG. 

Now   haud    you    there,    for   faith   you  've    said 
enough, 
And  muekle  mair  than  ye  can  male  to  through.1 
As  for  your  Priesthood  I  shall  say  but  little, 
Corbies  and  Clergy  are  a  shot  right  kittle . 
But,  under  favour  o'  your  langer  beard, 
Abuse  o'  magistrates  might  weel  be  spared. 
To  liken  them  to  your  auld-warld  squad, 
I  must  needs  say  comparisons  are  odd. 
In  Ayr,  wag-wits  nae  mair  can  hae  a  handle 
To  mouth  "  a  citizen,"  a  term  o'  scandal ; 
Nae  mair  the  Council  waddles  down  the  street, 
In  all  the  pomp  of  ignorant  conceit.2 
Men  wha  grew  wise  priggin'  owre  hops  and  raisins, 
Or  gathered  liberal  views  in  bonds  and  seisins ; 
If  haply  Knowledge,  on  a  random  tramp, 
Had  shored  them  with  a  glimmer  of  his  lamp, 

1  Inserted  in  MS.  copy: 

"  That 's  aye  a  string  auld  doited  Gray  beards  harp  on, 
A  topic  for  their  peevishness  to  carp  on." 

*  Variation  in  MS.  : 

"  Nae  mair  down,  street  the  Council  quorum  waddles, 
With  wigs  like  mainsails  on  their  logger  noddles ; 
No  difference  but  bulkiest  or  tallest. 
With  comfortable  dulness  in  for  ballast: 
Nor  shoals  nor  currents  need  a  pilot's  caution, 
For  regularly  slow,  they  only  witness  motion.'' 


296  THE  BRIGS   OF  AYR. 

And  would  to  Common-sense  for  once  betrayed 

them, 
Plain,  dull  Stupidity  stept  kindly  in  to  aid  them 


What  further  clish-ma-claver  might  been  said, 
What  bloody  wars,  if  sprites  had  blood  to  shed, 
No  man  can  tell ;  but  all  before  their  sight, 
A  fairy  train  appeared  in  order  bright ; 
Adown  the  glittering  stream  they  featly  danced  ; 
Bright  to  the  moon  their  various  dresses  glanced 
They  footed  o'er  the  watery  glass  so  neat, 
The  infant  ice  scarce  bent  beneath  their  feet ; 
While  arts  of  minstrelsy  among  them  rung, 
And  soul-ennobling  bards  heroic  ditties  sung. 
Oh  had  M'Lachlan,  thairm-inspiring  sage, 
Been  there  to  hear  this  heavenly  band  engage, 
When  through  his  dear  strathspeys  they  bore  with 

Highland  rage ; 
Or  when  they  struck  old  Scotia's  melting  airs, 
The  lover's  raptured  joys  or  bleeding  cares  ; 
How  would  his  Highland  lug  been  nobler  fired, 
And  even  his  matchless  hand  with  finer  touch 

inspired  ! 
No  guess  could  tell  what  instrument  appeared, 
But  all  the  soul  of  Music's  self  was  heard ; 
Harmonious  concert  rung  in  every  part, 
While  simple  melody  poured  moving  on  the  heart 

The  Genius  of  the  stream  in  front  appears, 
A  venerable  chief  advanced  in  years  ; 
His  hoary  head  with  water-lilies  crowned, 
His  manly  leg  with  garter  tangle  bound. 


LINES    ON  MEETING  LORD  DAER.      2f)7 

Next  came  the  loveliest  pair  in  all  the  ring, 

Sweet  Female  Beauty  hand  in  hand  with  Spring, 

Then,  crowned  with  flowery  hay,  came  Rural  Joy, 

And  Summer,  with  his  fervid-beaming  eye  ; 

All-cheering  Plenty,  with  her  flowing  horn, 

Led  yellow  Autumn,  wreathed  with  nodding  corn ; 

Then  Winter's  time-bleached  locks  did  hoary  show, 

By  Hospitality  with  cloudless  brow  ; 

Next  followed  Courage,  with  his  martial  stride, 

From  where  the  Feal  wild  woody  coverts  hide  ; 

Benevolence,  with  mild,  benignant  air, 

A  female  form,  came  from  the  towers  of  Stair  ; 

Learning  and  Worth  in  equal  measures  trode 

From  simple  Catrine,  their  long-loved  abode  : 

Last,  white-robed    Peace,  crowned  with   a   hazel 

wreath, 
To  rustic  Agriculture  did  bequeath 
The  broken  iron  instruments  of  death ; 
At  sight  of  whom  our  Sprites  forgat  their  kind- 
ling wrath. 


LINES  ON  MEETING  WITH  BASIL,  LORD  DAER. 

THHIS  wot  ye  all  whom  it  concerns, 
I,  Rhymer  Robin,  alias  Burns, 

October  twenty-third, 
A  ne'er-to-be-fbigotten  day, 
Sae  far  I  sprachled  up  the  brae, 

I  dinner'd  wi'  a  Lord. 

I  've  been  at  drucken  writers'  feasts, 
Nay,  been  biteh-fou  'mang  godly  priests, 


298    LINES  ON  MEETING  LORD  DAER. 

Wi'  reverence  be  it  spoken  ; 
I've  even  joined  the  honoured  jorum, 
When  mighty  squireships  of  the  quorum 

Their  hydra  drouth  did  sloken. 

But  wi'  a  Lord  !  —  stand  out  my  shin, 
A  Lord  —  a  Peer  —  an  Earl's  son  ! 

Up  higher  yet  my  bonnet ! 
And  sic  a  Lord !  —  lang  Scotch  ells  twa, 
Our  Peerage  he  o'erlooks  them  a', 

As  I  look  o'er  my  sonnet. 

But  oh  for  Hogarth's  magic  power  ! 
To  shew  Sir  Bardie's  willyart  glower, 

And  how  he  stared  and  stanimer'd, 
"When  goavan,  as  if  led  wi'  branks, 
And  stumpin'  on  his  ploughman  shanks, 

He  in  the  parlour  hammer'd. 

I  sidling  sheltered  in  a  nook, 
And  at  his  Lordship  steal't  a  look, 

Like  some  portentous  omen  ; 
Except  good  sense  and  social  glee, 
And  (what  surprised  me)  modesty, 

I  marked  nought  uncommon. 

I  watched  the  symptoms  o'  the  great, 
The  gentle  pride,  the  lordly  state, 

The  arrogant  assuming ; 
The  fient  a  pride,  nae  pride  had  he, 
Nor  saute,  nor  state,  that  I  could  see, 

Mair  than  an  honest  ploughman. 


EPISTLE   TO   MAJOR   LOGAN.  299 

Then  from  his  lordship  T  shall  le?.xn 
Henceforth  to  meet  with  unconcern 

One  rank  as  weel  's  anither  ; 
Nae  honest  worthy  man  need  care 
To  meet  with  noble  youthfid  Daer, 

For  he  but  meets  a  brother. 


EPISTLE   TO   MAJOR  LOGAN. 

XT  AIL,  thainn-inspirin',  rattlin'  Willie  ! 

Though  Fortune's  road  be  rough  and  billy 
To  every  fiddling,  rhyming  billie, 

We  never  heed, 
But  take  it  like  the  unbacked  filly, 
Proud  o'  her  speed. 

When  idly  goavan  whyles  we  saunter, 
Yirr,  fancy  barks,  awa'  we  canter 
Uphill,  down  brae,  till  some  mischanter, 

Some  black  bogdiole, 
Arrests  us,  then  the  scaith  and  banter 

We  're  forced  to  thole. 

Hale  be  your  heart !  —  hale  be  your  fiddle 
Lang  may  your  elbock  jink  and  diddle, 
To  cheer  you  through  the  weary  widdle 

O'  this  wild  warP, 
Until  you  on  a  crumniock  driddle 

A  gray-haired  carle. 

Come  wealth,  come  poortith,  late  or  soon, 
Heaven  send  your  heart-strings  aye  in  tune, 


500  EPISTLE   TO   MAJOR  LOGAN. 

And  screw  your  temper-pins  aboon, 

A  fifth  or  mair, 
The  melancholious,  lazy  croon, 

O'  cankrie  care. 

May  still  your  life  from  day  to  day 
Nae  "  lente  largo  "  in  the  play, 
But  "  allegretto  forte  "  gay 

Harmonious  flow, 
A  sweeping,  kindling,  bauld  Strathspey  — 

Encore !     Bravo  ! 

A  blessing  on  the  cheery  gang 
Wha  dearly  like  a  jig  or  sang, 
And  never  think  o'  right  and  wrang 

By  square  and  rule, 
But  as  the  clegs  o'  feeling  stang, 

Are  wise  or  fool. 

My  hand-waled  curse  keep  hard  in  chase 
The  harpy,  hoodock,  purse-proud  race, 
Wha  count  on  poortith  as  disgrace  I 

Their  tuneless  hearts  — 
May  fireside  discords  jar  a  base 

To  a'  their  parts  ! 

But  come,  your  hand,  my  careless  brither, 
P  th'  ither  warl',  if  there 's  anither 
And  that  there  is  I  've  little  swither 

About  the  matter  — 
We  cheek  for  chow  shall  jog  thegither  * 

I  'so  ne'er  bid  better. 


EPISTLE   TO  MAJOR  LOGAN.  301 

We  've  faults  and  failings  —  granted  clearly, 
We  're  frail  backsliding  mortals  merely, 
Eve's  bonny  squad  priests  wyte  them  sheerly 

For  our  grand  fa' ; 
But  still,  but  still  —  I  like  them  dearly  — 

God  bless  them  a' ! 

Ochon  for  poor  Castalian  drinkers, 
When  they  fa'  foul  o'  earthly  jinkers, 
The  witching  cursed  delicious  blinkers 

Ilae  put  me  hyte, 
And  gart  me  weet  my  waukrife  winkers 

Wi'  girnin'  spite. 

But  by  yon  moon  !  —  and  that 's  high  swearin' — 
And  every  star  within  my  hearin'  I 
And  by  her  een  wha  was  a  dear  ane ! 

I  '11  ne'er  forget ; 
I  hope  to  gie  the  jads  a  clearin' 

In  fair-play  yet. 

My  loss  I  mourn,  but  not  repent  it, 
I  '11  seek  my  pursie  whare  I  tint  it ; 
Ance  to  the  Indies  I  were  wonted, 

Some  cantrip  hour, 
By  some  sweet  elf  I  '11  yet  be  dinted, 

Then,  vice  V amour  ! 

Fakes  mes  baisc-maiiix  respeclueuses, 
To  sentimental  sister  Susie, 
And  honest  Lucky  ;  no  to  roose  you, 
Ye  may  be  proud, 


302  ADDRESS   TO  EDINBURGH. 

That  sic  a  couple  Fate  allows  ye 
To  grace  your  blood. 

Nae  mair  at  present  can  I  measure, 

And  trowth,  my  rhymin'  ware  's  nae  treasure 

But  when  in  Ayr,  some  half-hour's  leisure, 

Be  't  light,  be 't  dark, 
Sir  Bard  will  do  himself  the  pleasure 

To  call  at  Park. 


AN  EXPOSTULATION  ON  A  REBUKE   ADMIN- 
ISTERED BY  MRS.   LAWRIE. 

T>  USTICITY'S  ungainly  form 

May  cloud  the  highest  mind  ; 
But  when  the  heart  is  nobly  warm, 
The  good  excuse  will  find. 

Propriety's  cold  cautious  rules 
Warm  Fervour  may  o'erlook  ; 

But  spare  poor  Sensibility 
The  ungentle,  harsh  rebuke. 


ADDRESS  TO  EDINBURGH. 

"E^DINA  !  Scotia's  darling  seat ! 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  towers, 
Where  once  beneath  a  monarch's  feet 

Sat  Legislation's  sovereign  powers  ! 
From  marking  wildly-scattered  flowers, 

As  on  the  banks  of  Ayr  I  strayed, 


ADDRESS  TO  EDINBURGH.  303 

And  singing,  lone,  the  lingering  hours, 
I  shelter  in  thy  honoured  shade. 

Here  wealth  still  swells  the  golden  tide, 

As  busy  Trade  his  labour  plies  ; 
There  Architecture's  noble  pride 

Bids  elegance  and  splendour  risi  ; 
Here  Justice,  from  her  native  skies, 

High  wields  her  balance  and  her  rod ; 
There  Learning,  with  his  eagle  eyes, 

Seeks  Science  in  her  coy  abode. 

Thy  sons,  Edina  !  social,  kind, 

With  open  arms  the  stranger  hail ; 
Their  views  enlarged,  their  liberal  mind, 

Above  the  narrow,  rural  vale ; 
Attentive  still  to  Sorrow's  wail, 

Or  modest  Merit's  silent  claim ; 
And  never  may  their  sources  fail ! 

And  never  envy  blot  their  name  ! 

Thy  daughters  bright  thy  walks  adorn, 

Gay  as  the  gilded  summer  sky, 
Sweet  as  the  dewy  milk-white  thorn, 

Dear  as  the  raptured  thrill  of  joy  ! 
Fair  Burnet  strikes  th'  adoring  eye, 

Heaven's  beauties  on  my  fancy  shine 
I  gee  the  Sire  of  Love  on  high, 

And  own  his  work  indeed  divine  1 

There,  watching  high  the  least  alarms, 

Thy  rough,  rude  fortress  gleams  afar 

Like  some  bold  veteran,  gray  in  arms, 


304  ADDRESS   TO  EDINBURGH. 

And  marked  with  many  a  seamy  scar. 
The  ponderous  wall  and  massy  bar, 

Grim-rising  o'er  the  rugged  rock, 
Have  oft  withstood  assailing  war, 

And  oft  repelled  the  invader's  shock. 

With  awe-struck  thought,  and  pitying  teal's 

I  view  that  noble,  stately  dome, 
Where  Scotia's  kings  of  other  years, 

Famed  heroes  !  had  their  royal  home. 
Alas,  how  changed  the  times  to  come 

Their  royal  name  low  in  the  dust ! 
Their  hapless  race  wild  wandering  roam, 

Though  rigid  law  cries  out,  'T  was  just  J 

Wild  beats  my  heart  to  trace  your  steps, 

Whose  ancestors,  in  days  of  yore, 
Through  hostile  ranks  and  ruined  gaps 

Old  Scotia's  bloody  lion  bore. 
Even  I  who  sing  in  rustic  lore, 

Haply,  my  sires  have  left  their  shed, 
And  faced  grim  danger's  loudest  roar, 

Bold-following  where  your  fathers  led ! 

Edina  !  Scotia's  darling  seat ! 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  towers, 
Where  once  beneath  a  monarch's  feet 

Sat  Legislation's  sovereign  powers  ! 
From  marking  wildly-scattered  flowers, 

As  on  the  banks  of  Ayr  I  strayed, 
And  singing,  lone,  the  lingering  hours, 

I  shelter  in  thy  honoured  shade. 


CHEVALIER'S  BIRTHDAY.  305 


ODE  ON  THE  CHEVALIER'S  BIRTHDAY. 


"E^ALSE  flatterer,  Hope,  away  ! 

Nor  think  to  lure  us  as  in  days  of  yore  ; 
We  solemnise  this  sorrowing  natal-day 
To  prove  our  loyal  truth ;  wc  can  no  more ; 
And  owning  Heaven's  mysterious  sway, 
Submissive  low  adore. 

Ye  honoured  mighty  dead  ! 
Who  nobly  perished  in  the  glorious  cause, 
Your  king,  your  country,  and  her  laws  ! 

From  great  Dundee  who  smiling  victory  led, 
And  fell  a  martyr  in  her  arms 
(What  breast  of  northern  ice  but  warms  ?) 

To  bold  Balmeriuo's  undying  name, 

Whose   soul  of  fire,  lighted   at  heaven's    high 
flame, 
Deserves  the  proudest  wreath  departed  heroes  claim. 

Nor  unavenged  your  fate  shall  be, 

It  only  lags  the  fatal  hour ; 
Your  blood  shall  with  incessant  cry 

Awake  at  last  th'  unsparing  power ; 
As  from  the  cliff,  with  thundering  course, 

The  snowy  ruin  smokes  along, 
With  doubling  speed  and  gathering  force, 
Till  deep  it  crashing  whelms  the  cottage  in  the 
vale  1 

So  vengeance       •  •       ■ 

voi...  i.  20 


300  BONNIE  DO  ON. 

TO  MISS  LOGAN  WITH  BEATTIE'S  POEMS: 

AS   A   NEW-YEAR'S   GIFT.  JANUARY    1,  1787. 

A  GAIN  the  silent  wheels  of  time 
Their  annual  round  have  driven, 
And  you,  though  scaree  in  maiden  prime, 
Are  so  much  nearer  heaven. 

No  gifts  have  I  from  Indian  coasts 

The  infant  year  to  hail ; 
I  send  you  more  than  India  boasts 

In  Edwin's  simple  tale. 

Our  sex  with  guile  and  faithless  love 
Is  charged,  perhaps,  too  true ; 

But  may,  dear  maid,  each  lover  prove 
An  Edwin  still  to  you  ! 


BONNIE  DOON. 

"V"E  flowery  banks  o'  bonnie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fair  ! 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 
And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care  ! 

Thou  '11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird, 

That  sings  upon  the  bough  ; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days 

When  my  fause  luve  was  true. 


(1TJDEW1FE   OF    WAUCHOPE-ROUSE.    307 

Thou  '11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird, 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate ; 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 

And  wistna  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  woodbine  twine, 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  love, 

And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose 

Frae  aft"  its  thorny  tree, 
And  my  fause  luver  staw  the  rose, 

But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me 


THE  GUDEVVIFE  OF  WAUCHOPE-nOUSE  TO 
BURNS. 

IVTY  cantie,  witty,  rhyming  ploughman, 

I  haftlins  doubt  it  is  na  true,  man 
That  ye  between  the  stilts  was  bred, 
Wi'  ploughmen  schooled,  wi'  ploughmen  fed ; 
I  doubt  it  sair,  ye  've  drawn  your  knowledge 
Either  frae  grammar-school  or  college. 
Guid  troth,  your  saul  and  body  baith 
War  better  fed,  I  'd  gie  my  aith, 
Than  theirs  who  sup  sour  milk  raid  pan-itch, 
And  bummil  through  the  single  Carritch. 
"Whacver  heard  the  ploughman  speak, 
Could  tell  gif  Homer  was  a  Greek  g 
He  'd  flee  as  soon  upon  a  cudgel, 


308    GUDEW1FE   OF   WAUCH0PE-H0U8E 

As  get  a  single  line  of  Virgil. 

And  then  sae  slee  ye  crack  your  jokes 

O'  Willie  Pitt  and  Charlie  Fox, 

Our  great  men  a'  sae  weel  descrive, 

And  how  to  gar  the  nation  thrive, 

Ane  maist  wad  swear  ye  dwalt  araang  them, 

And  as  ye  saw  them,  sae  ye  sang  them. 

But  be  ye  ploughman,  be  ye  peer, 

Ye  are  a  funny  blade,  I  swear ; 

And  though  the  cauld  I  ill  can  bide, 

Yet  twenty  miles  and  mair  I  'd  ride 

O'er  moss  and  moor,  and  never  grmnble, 

Though  my  auld  yad  should  gie  a  stumble, 

To  crack  a  winter  night  wi'  thee, 

And  hear  thy  sangs  and  sonnets  slee. 

Oh  gif  I  kenn'd  but  whare  ye  baide, 

I  'd  send  to  you  a  marled  plaid  ; 

'T  wad  haud  your  shouthers  warm  and  braw, 

And  douce  at  kirk  or  market  shaw  ; 

Fra'  south  as  wecl  as  north,  my  lad, 

A'  honest  Scotsmen  lo'e  the  maud. 


BURNS    TO    THE    GUDEWIFE    OF  WAUCHOPE- 
HOUSE. 

T  MIND  it  weel  in  early  date, 

When  I  was  beardless,  young,  and  blate, 
And  first  could  thrash  the  barn, 
Or  haud  a  yokin'  at  the  pleugh, 
And  though  forfoughten  sair  eneugh, 


GUDEW1FE  OF  WAUCIIOPE-HOUSE.    309 

Yet  unco  proud  to  learn  : 
When  first  among  the  yellow  corn 

A  man  I  reckoned  was; 
And  wi'  the  lave  ilk  merry  morn 
Could  rank  my  rig  and  lass, 
Still  shearing,  and  clearing, 

The  tither  stooked  raw, 
Wi'  claivers,  and  haivers, 
Wearing  the  day  awa'. 

E'en  then,  a  wish,  I  mind  its  power  — 
A  wish  that  to  my  latest  hour 

Shall  strongly  heave  my  breast  — 
That  I,  for  poor  auld  Scotland's  sake, 
Some  usefu'  plan  or  beuk  could  make, 

Or  sing  a  sang  at  least. 
The  rough  burr-thissle,  spreading  wide 

Amang  the  bearded  bear, 
I  turned  the  weeder-clips  aside, 
And  spared  the  symbol  dear  ! 
No  nation,  no  station, 

My  envy  e'er  could  raise, 
A  Scot  still,  but  blot  still, 
I  knew  nae  higher  praise. 

But  still  the  elements  o'  sang, 

In  formless  jumble,  right  and  wrang, 

Wild  floated  in  my  brain ; 
Till  on  that  har'st  I  said  before, 
My  partner  in  the  merry  core, 

She  roused  the  forming  strain. 
I  see  her  yet,  the  sonsie  quean- 

That  lighted  up  my  jingle, 


310    GUBEWIFE  OF    WAV  CHOP E-HOU&K 

Her  witching  smile,  her  pauky  een 
That  gart  my  heart-strings  tingle : 
I  fired,  inspired, 

At  every  kindling  keek, 
But  bashing,  and  dashing, 
I  feared  aye  to  speak. 

Health  to  the  sex,  ilk  guid  chiel  says, 
Wi'  merry  dance  in  winter  days, 
And  we  to  share  in  common  : 
The  gust  o'  joy,  the  balm  of  wo, 
The  saul  o'  life,  the  heaven  below, 

Is  rapture-giving  woman. 
Ye  surly  sumphs,  who  hate  the  name, 

Be  mindfu'  o'  your  mither ; 
She,  honest  woman,  may  think  shame 
That  ye  're  connected  with  her. 
Ye  're  wae  men,  ye  're  nae  men 
That  slight  the  lovely  dears ; 
To  shame  ye,  disclaim  ye, 
Ek  honest  birkie  swears. 

For  you,  no  Dred  to  barn  and  byre, 
Wha  sweetly  tune  the  Scottish  lyre, 

Thanks  to  you  for  your  line : 
The  marled  plaid  ye  kindly  spare, 
By  me  should  gratefully  be  ware ; 

'Twad  please  me  to  the  Nine. 
I M  be  mair  vauntie  o'  my  hap, 

Douce  hingin'  owre  my  curplej 
Than  ony  ermine  ever  lap, 

Or  proud  imperial  purple. 


RATTLIN"    ROARIN"    WILLIE.         311 

Fareweel  then,  lang  heal  then, 

And  plenty  be  your  fa', 
May  Losses  and  crosses 

Ne'er  at  your  hallan  ca* ! 


WILLIAM  SMELLIE. 

■ _L  0  Crochallan  came, 

The  old  cocked-hat,  the  gray  surtout,  the  same , 
His  bristling  beard  just  rising  in  its  might ; 
T  was  four  long  nights  and  days  till  shaving-night 
His  uncombed  grizzly  locks,  wild  stai-ing,  thatched 
A  head  fur  thought  profound  and  clear  unmatched ; 
Yet  though  his  caustic  wit  was  biting  rude, 
His  heart  was  warm,  benevolent,  and  good. 


RATTLIN',   ROARIN'   WILLIE. 

A  SI  cam  by  Crochallan, 
"^^  I  cannilie  keekit  ben  ; 
Rattlin',  roarin'  Willie 

Was  sitting  at  yon  boord-en' 
Sitting  at  yon  boord-en', 

And  aiming  gude  companie  ; 
Rattlin',  roarin'  Willie, 

Ye  're  welcome  hame  to  me  I 


812       ON   THE  EARL    OF   GLEN  CAIRN. 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  THE  GRAVE  OF  FERGUSSON. 

HERE    LIES    ROBERT   FERGUSSON,    POET. 
BORN,  SEPTEMBER  5TH,  1751 ;  DIED,  16TH  OCTOBER,  1774 

"VTO  sculptured  marble  liere,  nor  pompous  lay, 

"  No  storied  urn,  nor  animated  bust ;  " 

This  simple  stone  directs  pale  Scotia's  way 

To  pour  her  sorrows  o'er  her  Poet's  dust. 


VERSES  UNDER  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  FERGUS- 
SON. 

/^URSE  on  ungrateful  man,  that  can  be  pleased, 

^   And  yet  can  starve  the  author  of  the  pleasure ! 

Oh  thou,  my  elder  brother  in  misfortune, 

By  far  my  elder  brother  in  the  Muses, 

With  tears  I  pity  thy  unhappy  fate  ! 

Why  is  the  bard  unpitied  by  the  world, 

Yet  has  so  keen  a  relish  of  its  pleasures  ? 


VERSES  INTENDED  TO  BE  WRITTEN  BELOW 
A  NOBLE  EARL'S  PICTURE.  [THE  EARL  OF 
GLENCAIRN.] 

T"\7"HOSE  is  that  noble,  dauntless  brow  ? 
'  '      And  whose  that  eye  of  fire  ? 


THE  AMERICAN    WAR.  313 

And  whose  that  generous  princely  mien 
Even  rooted  foes  admire  ? 

Stranger,  to  justly  shew  that  brow, 

And  mark  that  eye  of  fire, 
Would  take  His  hand,  whose  vernal  tints 

His  other  works  admire. 

Bright,  as  a  cloudless  summer  sun, 

With  stately  port  he  moves  ; 
His  guardian  seraph  eyes  with  awe 

The  noble  ward  he  loves. 

Among  the  illustrious  Scottish  sons 
That  chief  thou  may'st  discern  ; 

Mark  Scotia's  fond  returning  eye, 
It  dwells  upon  Glencairn. 


THE  AMERICAN  WAR. 

A    FRAGMENT 

V\7"HEN  Guildford  good  our  pilot  stood, 

And  did  our  helm  thraw,  man, 
Ae  night,  at  tea,  began  a  ple.i, 

Within  America,  man 
Then  up  they  gat  the  maskin'-pat, 

And  in  the  sea  did  jaw,  man  ; 
And  did  nae  less,  in  full  Congress, 

Than  quite  refuse  our  law,  man. 


314  THE  AMERICAN   WAR 

Then  through  the  lakes  Montgomery  takes, 

I  wat  he  was  na  slaw,  man  ; 
Down  Lowrie's  Burn  he  took  a  turn, 

And  Carleton  did  ca',  man  ; 
But  yet,  what-reck,  he,  at  Quebec, 

Montgomery-like  did  fa',  man, 
Wi  sword  in  hand,  before  his  band, 

Amang  his  en'mies  a',  man. 

Poor  Tammy  Gage,  within  a  cage, 

Was  kept  at  Boston  ha',  man ; 
Till  Willie  Howe  took  o'er  the  knowe 

For  Philadelphia,  man. 
Wi'  sword  and  gun  he  thought  a  sin 

Guid  Christian  blood  to  draw,  man: 
But  at  New  York,  wi'  knife  and  fork, 

Sir-loin  he  hacked  sma',  man. 

Burgoyne  gaed  up,  like  spur  and  whip, 

Till  Fraser  brave  did  fa',  man  ; 
Then  lost  his  way,  ae  misty  day, 

In  Saratoga  shaw,  man. 
Cornwallis  fought  as  lang  's  he  dought, 

And  did  the  buckskins  claw,  man ; 
But  Clinton's  glaive  frae  rust  to  save, 

He  hung  it  to  the  wa',  man. 

Then  Montague,  and  Guildford  too, 

Began  to  fear  a  fa',  man ; 
And  Sackville  dour,  wha  stood  the  stoure, 

The  German  Chief  to  thraw,  man : 
For  Paddy  Burke,  like  ony  Turk, 

Nae  mercy  had  at  a',  man  ; 


THE  AMERICAN    WAR.  315 

And  Charlie  Fox  threw  by  the  box, 
And  lowsed  his  tinkler  jaw,  man. 

Then  Rockingham  took  up  the  game, 

Till  death  did  on  him  ca',  man  •, 
When  Shclburne  meek  held  up  his  cheek, 

Conform  to  gospel  law,  man. 
Saint  Stephen's  boys,  wi' jarring  noise, 

They  did  his  measures  thraw,  man, 
For  North  and  Fox  united  stocks, 

And  bore  him  to  the  wa',  man. 

Then  clubs  and  hearts  were  Charlie's  cartea 

He  swept  the  stakes  awa',  man, 
Till  the  diamond's  ace,  of  Indian  race, 

Led  him  a  sair  fa ux  pas,  man. 
The  Saxon  lads,  wi'  loud  placads, 

On  Chatham's  boy  did  ca',  man ; 
And  Scotland  drew  her  pipe,  and  blew, 

"  Up,  Willie,  waur  them  a',  man ! " 

Behind  the  throne  then  Grenville  's  gone, 

A  secret  word  or  twa,  man ; 
While  slee  Dundas  aroused  the  class, 

Be-north  the  Roman  Wa',  man  : 
And  Chatham's  wraith,  in  heavenly  graith, 

(Inspired  bardie*  saw,  man,) 
Wi'  kindling  eyes  cried  :   "  Willie,  rise  1 

Would  I  hae  feared  them  a',  man  ?  " 

But,  word  and  blow,  North,  Fox,  and  Ca, 

Gowff'd  Willie  like  a  ba',  man, 
Till  Suthron  raise,  and  coost  their  claise 


310  TO  A   HAGGIS. 

Behind  hirn  in  a  raw,  man  ; 
And  Caledon  threw  by  the  drone, 

And  did  her  whittle  draw,  man ; 
And  swoor  fu'  rude,  through  dirt  and  blood) 

To  make  it  guid  in  law.  man. 


TO  A  HAGGIS. 

T^AIR  fa'  your  honest,  sonsie  face, 

Great  chieftain  o'  the  puddin'-race : 
Aboon  them  a'  ye  tak  your  place, 

Painch,  tripe,  or  thairm ; 
Weel  are  ye  wordy  of  a  grace 
As  lang  's  my  arm. 

The  groaning  trencher  there  ye  fill, 
Your  hurdies  like  a  distant  hill ; 
Your  pin  wad  help  to  mend  a  mill 

In  time  o'  need, 
While  through  your  pores  the  dews  distil 

Like  amber  bead. 

His  knife  see  rustic  labour  dight, 
And  cut  you  up  wi'  ready  slight, 
Trenching  your  gushing  entrails  bright 

Like  ony  ditch  ; 
And  then,  oh  what  a  glorious  sight, 

Warm-reekin',  rich ! 

Then  horn  for  horn  they  stretch  and  strive, 
Deil  tak  the  hindmost,  on  they  drive, 


TO  A  HAG  GTS.  817 

Till  a*  their  weel-swall'd  kytes  belyve 
Are  bent  like  drums ; 

Then  auld  guidman,  maist  like  to  rive, 
"  Bethankit !  "  hums. 

Is  there  that  owre  his  French  ragout, 
Or  olio  that  wail  staw  a  sow, 
Or  fricassee  wad  mak  her  spew 

Wi'  perfect  scunner, 
Looks  down  wi'  sneering,  scornfu'  view 

On  sic  a  dinner  ! 

Poor  devil !  see  him  owre  his  trash, 
As  feckless  as  a  withered  rash, 
His  spindle-shank  a  guid  whip-lash, 

His  nieve  a  nit ; 
Through  bloody  flood  or  field  to  dash, 

Oh  how  unfit ! 

But  mark  the  rustic,  haggis-fed, 

The  trembling  earth  resounds  his  tread, 

Clap  in  his  walie  nieve  a  blade, 

He  '11  mak  it  whissle  ; 
And  legs,  and  arms,  and  heads  will  sned, 

Like  taps  o'  thrissle. 

Ye  Powers  wha  mak  mankind  your  care, 
And  dish  them  out  their  bill  o'  fare, 
Auld  Scotland  wants  nae  skinking  ware 

That  jaups  in  luggies; 
But,  if  ye  wisli  her  gratefu'  prayer, 


318    PROLOGUE  SPOKEN  BY  MR.    WOODS. 


EXTEMFORE  IN  THE  COURT   OF  SESSION 

Tune  —  Rilliecrankie. 

LORD    ADVOCATE. 

TTE  clenched  his  pamphlets  in  his  fist, 

He  quoted  and  he  hinted, 
Till  in  a  declamation-mist, 

His  argument  he  tint  it : 
He  gaped  for 't,  he  graiped  for 't, 

He  fand  it  was  awa',  man ; 
But  what  his  common-sense  came  short, 

He  eked  out  wi'  law,  man. 

MR.  ERSKTNE. 

Collected  Harry  stood  a  wee, 

Then  opened  out  his  arm,  man ; 
His  lordship  sat  wi'  ruefu'  e'e, 

And  eyed  the  gathering  storm,  man ; 
Like  wind-driven  hail,  it  did  assail, 

Or  torrents  owre  a  linn,  man ; 
The  Bench  sae  wise  lift  up  their  eyes, 

Half-wauken'd  wi'  the  din,  man. 


PROLOGUE  srOKEN  BY  MR.   WOODS  ON  HIS 
BENEFIT-NIGHT. 

"\\^"HEN  by  a  generous  Public's  kind  acclaim, 
That    dearest   meed    is   granted  —  honest 
Fame; 
When  here  your  favour  is  the  actor's  lot, 


PROLOGUE  SPOKEN  BY  MR.    WOODS.    819 

Nor  even  the  man  in  private  life  forgot ; 
What  breast  so  dead  to  heavenly  Virtue's  glow, 
But  heaves  impassioned  with  the  grateful  throe  ? 

Poor  is  the  task  to  please  a  barbarous  throng, 
Tt  needs  no  Siddons'  powers  in  Southern's  song 
But  here  an  aneient  nation  famed  afar, 
For  genius,  learning  high,  as  great  in  war  — 
Hail,  Caledonia,  name  for  ever  dear! 
Before  whose  sons  I  'in  honoured  to  appear  1 
Where  every  science  —  every  nobler  art  — 
That  can  inform  the  mind,  or  mend  the  heart, 
Is  known  ;  as  grateful  nations  oft  have  found 
Far  as  the  rude  barbarian  marks  the  bound. 
Philosophy,  no  idle  pedant  dream, 
Here  holds  her  search  by  heaven-taught  Reason's 

beam; 
Here  History  paints  with  elegance  and  force 
The  tide  of  Empire's  fluctuating  course ; 
Here  Douglas  forms  wild  Shakspeare  into  plan, 
And  Harley  rouses  all  the  god  in  man. 
When  well-formed  taste  and  sparkling  wit  unite 
With  manly  lore,  or  female  beauty  bright 
(Beauty,  where  faultless  symmetry  and  grace, 
Can  only  charm  us  in  the  second  place) 
Witness  my  heart,  how  oft  with  panting  fear, 
As  on  this  night,  I've  met  these  judges  herel 
But  still  the  hope  Experience  taught  to  live, 
Equal  to  judge  —  you're  candid  to  forgive. 
No  hundred-headed  Riot  here  we  meet, 
With  Decency  and  Law  beneath  his  feet ; 
Nor  Insolence  assumes  fair  Freedom's  name ; 
Like  Caledonians,  you  applaud  or  blame. 


820  WILLIE'S  AWA. 

Oh  thou  dread  Power !  whose  empire-giving  hand 
Has   oft   been  stretched  to  shield   the    honoured 

land! 
Strong  may  she  glow  with  all  her  ancient  fire ! 
May  every  son  be  worthy  ef  his  sire  ! 
Firm  may  she  rise  with  generous  disdain 
At  Tyranny's  or  direr  Pleasure's  chain ! 
Still  self-dependent  in  her  native  shore, 
Bold  may  she  brave  grim  Danger's  loudest  roar, 
Till   Fate  the  curtain  drops  on  worlds  to  be  no 

more  ! 


WILLIE'S    AW  A'. 

A  ULD  chuckie  Reekie 's  sair  distrest, 
-^^  Down  droops  her  ance  weel-burnished  crest, 
Nae  joy  her  bonny  buskit  nest 

Can  yield  ava, 
Her  darling  bird  that  she  lo'es  best  — 

Willie 's  awa' ! 

Oh  Willie  was  a  witty  wight, 
And  had  o'  things  an  unco  slight ; 
Auld  Reekie  aye  he  keepit  tight, 

And  trig  and  braw  : 
But  now  they  '11  busk  her  like  a  fright  — 

Willie 's  awa'  1 

The  stiffest  o'  them  a'  he  bowed  ; 
The  bauldest  o'  them  a'  he  cowed ; 
They  durst  nae  mair  than  he  allowed, 
That  was  a  law  : 


WILLIE'S  AWA\  321 

We  've  lost  a  birkie  weel  worth  gowd  — 
Willie 's  awa' ! 

Now  gawkies,  tawpies,  gowks,  and  fools, 
Frae  colleges  and  boarding-schools, 
May  sprout  like  simmer  pu< Mock-stools 

In  glen  or  shaw  ; 
He  wha  could  brush  them  down  to  mools  —       ' 

Willie 's  awa' ! 

The  brethren  o'  the  Commerce- Chaumer 
May  mourn  their  loss  wi'  doolfu'  clamour ; 
He  was  a  dictionar  and  grammar 

Amang  them  a' ; 
I  fear  they  '11  now  mak  monie  a  stammer  — 

Willie 's  awa'  1 

Nae  mair  we  see  his  levee  door 
Philosophers  and  poets  pour, 
And  toothy  critics  by  the  score, 

In  bloody  raw  ! 
The  adjutant  o'  a'  the  core  — 

Willie  's  awa' ! 

Now  worthy  Gregory's  Latin  face, 
Tytler's  and  Greenfield's  modest  grace, 
Mackenzie,  Stewart,  sic  a  brace 

As  Rome  ne'er  saw  ; 
They  a'  maun  meet  some  ither  place  — 

Willie 's  awa' ! 

Poor  Burns  e'en  Scotch  drink  canna  quicken  ; 
He  cheeps  like  some  bewildered  chicken, 
vol.  i.  21 


322  WILLIE 'fl  AWA\ 

Scared  frae  its  minnie  and  the  cleckin' 

By  hoodie-craw  ; 
Grief's  gien  his  heart  an  unco  kickin*  — 

Willie 's  awa' ! 

Now  every  sour-mou'd  girnin'  blellum  — ■ 
And  Calvin's  folk,  are  fit  to  fell  him  ; 
And  self-conceited  critic  skellum 

His  quill  may  draw  ; 
He  wha  could  brawlie  ward  their  bellum 

Willie 's  awa' ! 

Up  wimpling  stately  Tweed  I  've  sped, 
And  Eden  scenes  on  crystal  Jed, 
And  Ettrick  banks  now  roaring  red, 

While  tempests  blaw ; 
But  every  joy  and  pleasure 's  fled  — 

Willie 's  awa' ! 

May  I  be  Slander's  common  speech, 
A  text  for  infamy  to  preach, 
And  lastly,  streekit  out  to  bleach 

In  winter  snaw, 
When  I  forget  thee,  Willie  Creech, 

Though  far  awa' ! 

May  never  wicked  Fortune  touzle  hira  I 
May  never  wicked  men  bamboozle  him  ! 
Until  a  pow  as  auld  's  Methusalem 

He  canty  claw  ! 
Then  *o  the  blessed  New  Jerusalem 

Fleet  wing  awa'  J 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHN  M'LEOD.     323 


ON  INCIVILITY  SHEWN  HIM  AT  INVERART. 

\ATHOE'ER  he  be  that  sojourns  here, 

T  pity  much  his  case, 
Unless  he  come  to  wait  upon 

The  Lord  their  God  —  his  Grace. 

There 's  naething  here  but  Highland  pride, 
And  Highland  scab  and  hunger ; 

If  Providence  has  sent  me  here, 
'T  was  surely  in  an  anger. 


COMPOSED    ON    LEAVING    A    PLACE    IN    THE 
HIGHLANDS  WHERE  HE  HAD  BEEN  KINDLY 

ENTERTAINED. 

lA^HEN  Death's  dark  stream  I  ferry  o'er  — 

A  time  that  surely  shall  come  — 
In  Heaven  itself  I  '11  ask  no  more, 
Than  just  a  Highland  welcome  1 


ON   READING   IN   A   NEWSPAPER 

THE   DEATH  OF  JOHN    M'LEOD,  Esq., 

HKOTITKK    TO    A    YOUNG    LADY,    A     PARTICULAR    FRIEND 
OF  THE   AUTHOR'S. 


QAD  thy  tale,  thou  idle  page, 
And  rueful  thy  alarms  ; 


324:      ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHN  M'LEOD 

Death  tears  the  brother  of  her  love 
From  Isabella's  arms. 

Sweetly  decked  with  pearly  dew 
The  morning  rose  may  blow, 

But  cold  successive  noontide  blasts 
May  lay  its  beauties  low. 

Fair  on  Isabella's  morn 
The  sun  propitious  smiled, 

But,  long  ere  noon,  succeeding  clouds 
Succeeding  hopes  beguiled. 

Fate  oft  tears  the  bosom  cords 
That  nature  finest  strung  ; 

So  Isabella's  heart  was  formed, 
And  so  that  heart  was  wrung. 

Were  it  in  the  poet's  power, 
Strong  as  he  shares  the  grief 

That  pierces  Isabella's  heart, 
To  give  that  heart  relief ! 

Dread  Omnipotence  alone 
Can  heal  the  wound  he  gave, 

Can  point  the  brimful  grief-worn  eyes 
To  scenes  beyond  the  grave. 

Virtue's  blossoms  there  shall  blow, 
And  fear  no  withering  blast ; 

There  Isabella's  spotless  worth 
Shall  happy  be  at  last 


ELEGY  ON  SIR  J.  B.   BLAIR.  325 


ON   THE  DEATH  OF  SIR  JAMES   HUNTER 
BLAIR. 

HPHE  lamp  of  day,  with  ill-presaging  glare, 

Dim,  cloudy,  sank  beneath  the  western  wave; 
The  inconstant  blast  howled  through  the  darkening 
air, 
And  hollow  whistled  in  the  rocky  cave. 

Lone  as  I  wandered  by  each  cliff  and  dell, 

Once  the  loved  haunts  of  Scotia's  royal  train ; 

Or  mused  where   limpid  streams  once  hallowed 
well, 
Or  mouldering  ruins  mark  the  sacred  fane ; 

The  increasing  blast  roared  round   the  beetling 
rocks, 
The  clouds,  swift-winged,  flew  o'er  the  starry 
sky, 
The  groaning  trees  untimely  shed  their  locks, 
And  shooting-meteors  caught  the  startled  eye. 

The  paly  moon  rose  in  the  livid  east, 

And  'mong  the  cliffs  disclosed  a  stately  form, 

In  weeds  of  wo  that  frantic  beat  her  breast, 

And  mixed  her  wailings  with  the  raving  storm 

Wild  to  my  heart  the  filial  pulses  glow, 

'T  was  Caledonia's  trophied  shield  I  viewed  : 

Her  form  majestic  drooped  in  pensive  wo, 
The  lightning  of  her  eye  in  tears  imbued. 


826  ELEGY  ON  SIR  J.  H.  BLAIR. 

Reversed  that  spear,  redoubtable  in  war, 

Reclined  that  banner,  erst  in  fields  unfurled, 

That  like  a  deathful  meteor  gleamed  afar, 

And  braved  the  mighty  monarchs  of  the  world 

u  My  patriot  son  fills  an  untimely  grave  ! " 
With  accents  wild  and  lifted  arms  she  cried  : 

"  Low  lies  the  hand  that  oft  was  stretched  to  save 
Low  lies  the   heart  that  swelled   with   honest 
pride. 

"  A  weeping  country  joins  a  widow's  tear ; 

The  helpless  poor  mix  with  the  orphan's  cry ; 
The  drooping  arts  surround  their  patron's  bier ; 

And  grateful  science  heaves  the  heartfelt  sigh  ! 

"  I  saw  my  sons  resume  their  ancient  fire  ; 

I  saw  fair  Freedom's  blossoms  richly  blow ; 
But  ah  !  how  hope  is  born  but  to  expire  ! 

Relentless  fate  has  laid  their  guardian  low. 

u  My  patriot  falls  :  but  shall  he  lie  unsung, 

While  empty  greatness  saves  a  worthless  name  ? 

No :  every  Muse  shall  join  her  tuneful  tongue, 
And  future  ages  hear  his  growing  fame. 

•'  And  I  will  join  a  mother's  tender  cares, 

Through  future  times  to  make  his  virtue  last ; 

That  distant  years  may  boast  of  other  Blairs  1 "  — 
She  said,  and  vanished  with  the  sweeping  blast 


TO   MI8B  FERR1KR.  327 

TO  MISS  FERRIER, 

ENCLOSING  THE   ELEGY   ON   8IK  J.    H.    BLA1K. 

l^TAE  heathen  name  shall  I  prefix 

Frae  Pindus  or  Parnassus  ; 
Auld  Reekie  dings  them  a'  to  sticks, 
For  rhyme-inspiring  lasses. 

Jove's  tunefu'  dochters  three  times  three 
Made  Homer  deep  their  debtor  ; 

But,  gien  the  body  half  an  e'e, 
Nine  Ferriers  wad  done  better  ! 

Last  day  my  mind  was  in  a  bog, 
Down  George's  Street  I  stoited  ; 

A  creeping  cauld  prosaic  fog 
My  very  senses  doited. 

Do  what  I  dought  to  set  her  free, 

My  saul  lay  in  the  mire  ; 
Ye  turned  a  neuk  —  I  saw  your  e'e  — 

She  took  the  wing  like  fire  ! 

The  mournfu'  sang  I  here  enclose 

In  gratitude  I  send  you  ; 
And  [wish  and]  pray  in  rhyme  sincere, 

A'  gude  things  may  attend  you  I 


828     WRITTEN  IN  THE  INN  A  T  KENM  ORE . 


VERSES 

WRITTEN  WITH  A  PENCIL  OVER  THE  CHIMNEY-PIECE 
IN  THE  PARLOUR  OF  THE  INN  AT  KENMORE,  TAT- 
MOUTH. 

A  DMIPJNG  Nature  in  her  wildest  grace, 
-^^  These  northern    scenes   with    weary  feet    I 

trace ; 
O'er  many  a  winding  dale  and  painful  steep, 
The  abodes  of  covied  grouse  and  timid  sheep, 
My  savage  journey,  curious,  I  pursue, 
Till  famed  Breadalbane  opens  to  my  view. 
The  meeting  cliffs  each  deep-sunk  glen  divides, 
The  woods,  wild    scattered,    clothe    their    ample 

sides  ; 
The  outstretching  lake,  imbosomed  'mong  the  hills, 
The  eye  with  wonder  and  amazement  fills ; 
The  Tay,  meandering  sweet  in  infant  pride, 
The  palace,  rising  on  its  verdant  side ; 
The  lawns,  wood-fringed  in  Nature's  native  taste ; 
The  hillocks,  dropt  in  Nature's  careless  haste ; 
The  arches,  striding  o'er  the  new-born  stream ; 
The  village,  glittering  in  the  noontide  beam  — 

Poetic  ardours  in  my  bosom  swell, 

Lone  wandering  by  the  hermit's  mossy  cell : 

The  sweeping  theatre  of  hanging  woods ; 

The  incessant  roar  of  headlong  tumbling  floods  — 

Here  Poesy  might  wake  her  Heaven-taught  lyre, 
And  look  through  nature  with  creative  fire  ; 


THE  BIRKS   OF  A  B  ERF  ELD  Y.  S29 

Here  to  the  wrongs  of  Fate  half  reconciled, 
Misfortune's  lightened  steps  might  wander  wild  ; 
And  Disappointment,  in  these  lonely  bounds, 
Find  balm  to  soothe  her  bitter,  rankling  wounds : 
Here  heart-struck  Grief  might  heavenward  stretch 

her  scan, 
And  injured  Worth  forget  and  pardon  man. 


THE  BIRKS   OF  ABERFELDY. 

Tune  —  The  Birks  of  Abergtldy. 

CHORUS. 

~D  ONNY  lassie,  will  ye  go, 
Will  ye  go,  will  ye  go  ? 
Bonny  lassie,  will  ye  go 

To  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy  ? 

Now  simmer  blinks  on  flowery  braes, 
And  o'er  the  crystal  streamlet  plays ; 
Come,  let  us  spend  the  lightsome  days 
In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

The  little  birdies  blithely  sing, 
While  o'er  their  heads  the  hazels  hing, 
Or  lightly  flit  on  wanton  wing 
In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

The  braes  ascend,  like  lofty  wa's, 
The  foamy  stream  deep-roaring  fa'p, 


330       PETITION   OF  BRUAR    WATER. 

O'erhung  wi'  fragrant  spreading  shaws, 
The  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

The  hoary  cliffs  are  crowned  wi'  flowers, 
White  o'er  the  linns  the  burnie  pours, 
And  rising,  weets  wi'  misty  showers 
The  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Let  Fortune's  gifts  at  random  flee, 
They  ne'er  shall  draw  a  wish  frae  me, 
Supremely  blest  wi'  love  and  thee, 
In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 


THE  HUMBLE  PETITION  OF  BRUAR  WATER  TO 
THE  NOBLE  DUKE  OF  ATHOLE. 

"jl/TY  lord,  I  know  your  noble  ear 

Wo  ne'er  assails  in  vain ; 
Emboldened  thus,  I  beg  you  '11  hear 

Your  humble  slave  complain, 
How  saucy  Phoebus'  scorching  beams, 

In  flaming  summer-pride, 
Dry-withering,  waste  my  foamy  streams, 

And  drink  my  crystal  tide. 

The  lightly-jumpin'  glowrin'  trouts, 

That  through  my  waters  play, 
If,  in  their  random,  wanton  spouts, 

They  near  the  margin  stray  ; 
If,  hapless  chance  !  they  linger  lang, 

I  'm  scorching  up  so  shallow, 


PETITION   OF  BRUAR    WATER.         331 

They  're  left  the  whitening  stanes  amang, 
In  gasping  death  to  wallow. 

Last  day  I  grat  wi'  spite  and  teen, 

As  Poet  Burns  came  by, 
That  to  a  bard  I  should  be  seen 

Wi'  half  my  channel  dry  : 
A  panegyric  rhyme,  I  ween, 

Even  as  I  was  he  shored  me ; 
But  had  I  in  my  glory  been, 

He,  kneeling,  wad  adored  rae. 

Here,  foaming  down  the  shelvy  rocks, 

In  twisting  strength  I  rin  ; 
There,  high  my  boiling  torrent  smokes, 

Wild  roaring  o'er  a  linn : 
Enjoying  large  each  spring  and  well, 

As  Nature  gave  them  me, 
I  am,  although  I  say  't  mysel', 

Worth  gaun  a  mile  to  see. 

Would  then  my  noble  master  please 

To  grant  my  highest  wishes, 
He  '11  shade  my  banks  wi'  towering  trees, 

And  bonny  spreading  bushes. 
Delighted  doubly  then,  my  lord, 

You  '11  wander  on  my  banks, 
And  listen  monie  a  grateful  bird 

Return  you  tuneful  thanks. 

The  sober  laverock,  warbling  wild, 

Shall  to  the  skies  aspire ; 
The  gowdspink,  Music's  gayest  child, 


332        PETITION   OF  BRUAR    WATER. 

Shall  sweetly  join  the  choir : 
The  blackbird  strong,  the  lintwhite  clear, 

The  mavis  mild  and  mellow, 
The  robin  pensive  autumn  cheer, 

In  all  her  locks  of  yellow. 

This,  too,  a  covert  shall  insure 

To  shield  them  from  the  storm ; 
And  coward  maukin  sleep  secure, 

Low  in  her  grassy  form. 
Here  shall  the  shepherd  make  his  seat, 

To  weave  his  crown  of  flowers ; 
Or  find  a  sheltering  safe  retreat 

From  prone  descending  showers. 

And  here,  by  sweet  endearing  stealth, 

Shall  meet  the  loving  pair, 
Despising  worlds  with  all  their  wealth 

As  empty  idle  care. 
The  flowers  shall  vie  in  all  their  charms 

The  hour  of  heaven  to  grace, 
And  birks  extend  their  fragrant  arms 

To  screen  the  dear  embrace. 

Here  haply  too,  at  vernal  dawn, 

Some  musing  bard  may  stray, 
And  eye  the  smoking,  dewy  lawn, 

And  misty  mountain  gray  ; 
Or  by  the  reaper's  nightly  beam, 

Mild-chequering  through  the  trees, 
Rave  to  my  darkly  dashing  stream, 

Hoarse  swelling  on  the  breeze. 


WRITTEN  AT  THE  FALL    OF  FYERS.    333 

Let  lofty  firs,  and  ashes  cool, 

My  lowly  banks  o'erspread, 
And  view,  deep  bending  in  the  pool, 

Their  shadows'  watery  bed  ! 
Let  fragrant  birks  in  woodbines  drest 

My  craggy  cliffs  adorn  ; 
And,  for  the  little  songster's  nest, 

The  close  embowering  thorn.  ' 

So  may  old  Scotia's  darling  hope, 

Your  little  angel  band, 
Spring,  like  their  fathers,  up  to  prop 

Their  honoured  native  land  ! 
So  may,  through  Albion's  farthest  ken, 

To  social-flowing  glasses, 
The  grace  be  —  "  Athole's  honest  men, 

And  Athole's  bonny  lasses  1 " 


VERSES 

WItlTTEN    WHILE   STANDING    BT  THE    FALL  OF    FYEKfl 
NEAR   LOCH   NESS. 

A  MONG  the  heathy  hills  and  ragged  woods, 
"^^  The  foaming  Fyers  pours  his  mossy  floods ; 
Till  full  he  dashes  on  the  rocky  mounds, 
Where,  through  a  shapeless  breach,  his  stream  re 

sounds. 
As  high  in  air  the  bursting  torrents  flow, 
As  deep  recoiling  surges  foam  below  ; 
Prone  down  the  rock  the  whitening  sheet  descends 
And  viewless  Echo's  ear,  astonished,  rends. 


334  CASTLE-GORDON. 

Km    seen,    through    rising    mists    and    ceaseless 

showers, 
The  hoary  cavern  wide  surrounding,  lowers  ; 
Still  through  the  gap  the  struggling  river  toils, 
And  still  below,  the  horrid  caldron  boils  — 


CASTLE-GORDON. 

OTKEAMS  that  glide  in  Orient  plains, 
^  Never  bound  by  Winter's  chains  ; 

Glowing  here  on  golden  sands, 
There  commixed  with  foulest  stains, 

From  tyranny's  empurpled  bands  ; 
These,  their  richly-gleaming  waves, 
I  leave  to  tyrants  and  their  slaves  ; 
Give  me  the  stream  that  sweetly  laves 
The  banks  by  Castle-Gordon. 

Spicy  forests,  ever  gay, 
Shading  from  the  burning  ray 

Helpless  wretches  sold  to  toil, 
Or  the  ruthless  native's  way, 

Bent  on  slaughter,  blood,  and  spoil ; 
Woods  that  ever  verdant  wave, 
I  leave  the  tyrant  and  the  slave  ; 
Give  me  the  groves  that  lofty  brave 
The  storms  by  Castle-Gordon. 

Wildly  here,  without  control, 
Nature  reigns  and  rules  the  whole ; 


THE  BONNY  LASS   OF  ALBANY.      335 

In  that  sober,  pensive  mood, 
Dearest  to  the  feeling  soul, 

She  plants  the  forest,  pours  the  flood. 
Life's  poor  day  I  '11  musing  rave, 
And  find  at  night  a  sheltering  cave, 
Where  waters  flow  and  wild  woods  wave, 
By  bonny  Castle-Gordon. 


THE  BONNY  LASS  OF  ALBANY. 
Tujib  —  Mary's  Dream, 

"|\TY  heart  is  wae,  and  unco  wae, 
To  think  upon  the  raging  sea, 
That  roars  between  her  gardens  green 
And  the  bonny  Lass  of  Albany. 

This  lovely  maid  's  of  royal  blood 
That  ruled  Albion's  kingdoms  three, 

But  oh,  alas  !  for  her  bonny  face, 

They  've  wranged  the  Lass  of  Albany. 

In  the  rolling  tide  of  spreading  Clyde 
There  sits  an  isle  of  high  degree, 

And  a  town  of  fame  whose  princely  name 
Should  gra  e  the  Lass  of  Albany. 

But  there 's  a  youth,  a  witless  youth, 
That  fills  the  place  where  she  should  be 

We  '11  send  him  o'er  to  his  native  shore, 
And  bring  our  ain  sweet  Albany. 


336      ON  SCARING  SOME   WATER-FOWL. 

Alas  the  day,  and  wo  the  day, 
A  false  usurper  wan  the  gree, 

Who  now  commands  the  towers  and  lands, 
The  royal  right  of  Albany. 

We  '11  daily  pray,  we  '11  nightly  pray, 
On  bended  knees  most  fervently, 

The  time  may  come,  with  pipe  and  drum, 
We  '11  welcome  hame  fair  Albany. 


ON  SCARING  SOME  WATER-FOWL  IN  LOCH 
TURIT. 

"V/^7"HY,  ye  tenants  of  the  lake, 

For  me  your  watery  haunt  forsake  ? 
Tell  me,  fellow-creatures,  why 
At  my  presence  thus  you  fly  ? 
Why  disturb  your  social  joys, 
Parent,  filial,  kindred  ties  ?  — 
Common  friend  to  you  and  me, 
Nature's  gifts  to  all  are  free  : 
Peaceful  keep  your  dimpling  wave, 
Busy  feed,  or  wanton  lave  ; 
Or,  beneath  the  sheltering  rock, 
Bide  the  surging  billow's  shock. 
Conscious,  blushing  for  our  race, 
Soon,  too  soon,  your  fears  I  trace, 
Man,  your  proud  usurping  foe, 
Would  be  lord  of  all  below  : 
Plumes  himself  in  Freedom's  pride. 
Tyrant  stern  to  all  beside. 


BLITHE    WAS  SHE.  337 

The  eagle,  from  the  cliffy  brow, 
Marking  you  his  prey  below, 
In  his  breast  no  pity  dwells, 
Strong  necessity  compels  : 
But  man,  to  whom  alone  is  given 
A  ray  direct  from  pitying  Heaven, 
Glories  in  his  heart  humane  — 
And  creatures  for  his  pleasure  slain. 
In  these  savage,  liquid  plains, 
Only  known  to  wandering  swains, 
Where  the  mossy  riv'let  strays, 
Far  from  human  haunts  and  ways, 
All  on  Nature  you  depend, 
And  life':;  poor  season  peaceful  spend 
Or,  if  man's  superior  might 
Dare  invade  your  native  right, 
On  the  lofty  ether  borne, 
Man  with  all  his  powers  you  scorn ; 
Swiftly  seek,  on  clanging  wings, 
Other  lakes  and  other  springs  ; 
And  the  foe  you  cannot  brave, 
Scorn  at  least  to  be  his  slave. 


BLITHE   WAS   SHE. 
Tun'K  —  Andro  and  his   Cutty   (run. 

chorus. 

T>  LITHE,  blithe  and  merry  was  she, 

Blithe  was  she  but  and  ben  : 
Blithe  by  the  banks  of  Earn, 

And  blithe  in  Glenturit  Glen. 
pL.  i.  22 


338  THE  ROSE-BUD. 

By  Auchtertyre  grows  the  aik, 

On  Yarrow  banks  the  birken  6haw  ; 

But  Phemle  was  a  bonnier  lass 
Than  braes  o'  Yarrow  ever  saw. 

Her  looks  were  like  a  flower  in  May, 
Her  smile  was  like  a  simmer  morn ; 

She  tripped  by  the  banks  o'  Earn, 
As  light 's  a  bird  upon  a  thorn. 

Her  bonny  face  it  was  as  meek 

As  ony  lamb  upon  a  lea ; 
The  evening  sun  was  ne'er  sae  sweet 

As  was  the  blink  o'  Phemie's  e'e. 

The  Highland  hills  I  've  wandered  wide 
And  o'er  the  lowlands  I  hae  been ; 

But  Phemie  was  the  blithest  lass 
That  ever  trod  the  dewy  green. 


THE  ROSE-BUD. 

Tune  —  The  Shepherd's  Wife. 

A     ROSE-BUD  by  my  early  walk, 
Adown  a  corn-enclosed  bawk, 
Sae  gently  bent  its  thorny  stalk, 

All  on  a  dewy  morning. 
Ere  twice  the  shades  o'  dawn  are  fled. 
In  a'  its  crimson  glory  spread, 
And  drooping  rich  the  dewy  head, 
It  scents  the  early  morning. 


TO  MISS   CRUIKSHANK.  339 

Within  the  bush,  her  covert  nest, 
A  little  linnet  fondly  prest, 
The  dew  sat  chilly  on  her  breast 

Sae  early  in  the  morning. 
She  soon  shall  see  her  tender  brood, 
The  pride,  the  pleasure  o'  the  wood, 
Amang  the  fresh  green  leaves  bedewed, 

Awake  the  early  morning. 

So  thou,  dear  bird,  young  Jenny  fair  ! 
On  trembling  string  or  vocal  air, 
Shall  sweetly  pay  the  tender  care 

That  tents  thy  early  morning. 
So  thou,  sweet  Rose-bud,  young  and  gay, 
Shalt  beauteous  blaze  upon  the  day, 
And  bless  the  parent's  evening  ray 

That  watched  thy  early  morning. 


TO  MISS  CRUIKSHANK,  A  VERY   YOUNG 
LADY. 

WRITTEN   ON   THE    BLANK-LEAF    OF    A    BOOK   PRESENTED 
TO  HER  BT  inn   AUTHOR. 

"DEAUTEOUS  Rose-bud,  young  and  gay, 

Blooming  in  thy  early  May, 
Never  mayst  thou,  lovely  flower, 
Chilly  shrink  in  sleety  shower  ; 
Never  Boreas'  hoary  path, 
Never  Eurus'  poisonous  breath. 
Never  baleful  stellar  lights, 
Taint  thee  with  untimely  blights  1 


340    BRAVING  ANGRY  WINTER'S  ST0RM3. 

Never,  never  reptile  thief 

Riot  on  thy  virgin  leaf, 

Nor  even  Sol  too  fiercely  view 

Thy  bosom  blushing  still  with  dew  ! 

Mayst  thou  long,  sweet  crimson  gem, 
Richly  deck  thy  native  stem  : 
Till  some  evening,  sober,  calm, 
Dropping  dews  and  breathing  balm, 
While  all  around  the  woodland  rings, 
And  every  bird  thy  requiem  sings, 
Thou,  amid  the  dirgeful  sound, 
Shed  thy  dying  honours  round, 
And  resign  to  parent  earth 
The  loveliest  form  she  e'er  gave  birth. 


WHERE    BRAVING  ANGRY   WINTER'S    STORMS. 

Tune  —  Neil  Gow's  Lamentation  for  Abercairny. 

YY^HERE,  braving  angry  winter's  storms, 
YY     The  lofty  Ochils  rise, 
Far  in  their  shade  my  Peggy's  charms 

First  blest  my  wondering  eyes  ; 
As  one  who  by  some  savage  stream 

A  lonely  gem  surveys, 
Astonished,  doubly  marks  its  beam, 

With  art's  most  polished  blaze. 

Blest  be  the  wild,  sequestered  shade, 

And  blest  the  day  and  hour, 
Where  Peggy's  channs  I  first  surveyed, 


MY  PEGGY'S  FACE.  341 

When  first  I  felt  their  power ! 
The  tyrant  Death,  with  grim  control, 

May  seize  my  fleeting  breath  ; 
But  tearing  Peggy  from  my  soul 

Must  be  a  stronger  death. 


MY  PEGGY'S  FACE. 

Tune  —  My  Peggy's  Face. 

l\/f"Y  Peggy's  face,  my  Peggy's  form, 

The  frost  of  hermit  age  might  warm ; 
My  Peggy's  worth,  my  Peggy's  mind, 
Might  charm  the  first  of  humankind. 
I  love  my  Peggy's  angel  air, 
Her  face  so  truly,  heavenly  fair, 
Her  native  grace  so  void  of  art, 
But  I  adore  my  Peggy's  heart. 

The  lily's  hue,  the  rose's  dye, 
The  kindling  lustre  of  an  eye  — 
Who  but  owns  their  magic  sway  ! 
Who  but  knows  they  all  decay  ! 
The  tender  thrill,  the  pitying  tear, 
The  generous  purpose,  nobly  dear, 
The  gentle  look,  that  rage  disarms  — 
These  are  all  immortal  charms. 


342  ADDRESS   TO    MR.    TYTLER. 


ADDRESS  TO  MR.   WILLIAM  TYTLER. 

SENT  WITH   A   SILHOUETTE  PORTRAIT. 

T>  E VERED  defender  of  beauteous  Stuart, 

Of  Stuart,  a  name  once  respected  — 
A  name  which  to  love  was  the  mark  of  a  true 
heart, 
But  now  't  is  despised  and  neglected. 

Though  something  like  moisture  conglobes  in  my 
eye, 

Let  no  one  misdeem  me  disloyal ; 
A  poor  friendless  wanderer  may  well  claim  a  sigh, 

Still  more,  if  that  wanderer  were  royal. 

My  fathers  that  name  have  revered  on  a  throne  ; 

My  fathers  have  fallen  to  right  it ; 
Those  fathers  would  spurn  their  degenerate  son, 

That  name  should  he  scoffingly  slight  it. 

Still  in  prayers  for  King  George  I  most  heartily 
join, 

The  Queen,  and  the  rest  of  the  gentry ; 
Be  they  wise,  be  they  foolish,  is  nothing  of  mine, 

Their  title 's  avowed  by  my  country. 

But  why  of  that  epocha  make  such  a  fuss, 

That  gave  us  the  Hanover  stem  ? 
If  bringing  them  over  was  lucky  for  us, 

I  'm  sure  't  was  as  lucky  foi  them. 


TO  MISS  CHARLOTTE  HAMILTON.     343 

But  loyalty  —  truce  !  we  're  on  dangerous  ground  1 
Who  knows  how  the  fashions  may  alter  ? 

The  doctrine  to-day  that  is  loyalty  sound, 
To-morrow  may  bring  us  a  halter  ! 

I  send  you  a  trifle,  a  head  of  a  bard, 

A  trifle  scarce  worthy  your  care  ; 
But  accept  it,  good  sir,  as  a  mark  of  regard, 

Sincere  as  a  saint's  dying  prayer. 

Now  life's  chilly  evening  dim  shades  on  your  eye, 

And  ushers  the  long  dreary  night ; 
But  you,  like  the  star  that  athwart  gdds  the  sky, 

Your  course  to  the  latest  is  bright. 


ON   A  YOUNG  LADY 

KESIDING  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  SMALL  RIVER  DEVON, 
IN  CLACKMANNANSHIRE,  HUT  WHOSE  INFANT  YEARS 
WERE   SPENT   IN   AYRSHIRE. 

TTOW  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  clear  winding 
J-L       Devon, 

With  green-spreading  bushes,  and  flowers  bloom- 
ing fair  ! 
But  the  bonniest  flower  on  the  banks  of  the  Devon 

Was  once  a  sweet  bud  on  the  braes  of  the  Ayr. 

Mild  be  the  sun  on  this  sweet  blushing  flower, 
In  the  gay  rosy  morn  as  it  bathes  in  the  dew, 

And  gentle  the  fall  of  the  soft  vernal  shower, 
That  steals  on  the  evening  each  leaf  to  renew  ! 


344     ELEGY   ON  PRESIDENT  DUN  J)  AS. 

Oh  spare  the  dear  blossom,  ye  orient  breezes, 
With  chill  hoary  wing  as  ye  usher  the  dawn  ! 

And  far  be  thou  distant,  thou  reptile  that  seizes 
The  verdure  and  pride  of  the  garden  and  lawn 

Let  Bourbon  exult  in  his  gay-gilded  lilies, 

And   England    triumphant    display  her    proud 
rose  ; 

A  fairer  than  either  adorns  the  green  valleys 
Where  Devon,  sweet  Devon,  meandering  flows. 


ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF   LORD   PRESIDENT 
DUNDAS. 

T  ONE  on  the  bleaky  hills  the  straying  flocks 
"^   Shun  the  fierce  storms  among  the  sheltering 

rocks  ; 
Down  from  the  rivulets,  red  with  dashing  rains, 
The  gathering  floods  burst  o'er  the  distant  plains; 
Beneath  the  blasts  the  leafless  forests  groan  ; 
The  hollow  caves  return  a  sullen  moan. 

Ye  hills,  ye  plains,  ye  forests,  and  ye  caves, 
Ye  howling  winds,  and  wintry  swelling  waves, 
Unheard,  unseen,  by  human  ear  or  eye, 
Sad  to  your  sympathetic  scenes  I  fly  ; 
Where  to  the  whistling  blast  and  water's  roar 
Pale  Scotia's  recent  wound  I  may  deplore. 
Oh  heavy  loss,  thy  country  ill  could  bear  I 
A  loss  these  evil  days  can  ne'er  repair  ! 


ELEGY    ON  PRESIDENT  DUN  DAB.     315 

Justice,  the  high  vicegerent  of  her  God, 
Her  doubtful  balance  eyed,  and  swayed  her  rod 
Hearing  the  tidings  of  the  fatal  blow 
She  sank,  abandoned  to  the  wildest  wo. 

Wrongs,  injuries,  from  many  a  darksome  den, 
Now  gay  in  hope  explore  the  paths  of  men  : 
See  from  bis  cavern  grim  Oppression  rise, 
And  throw  on  Poverty  his  cruel  eyes  ; 
Keen  on  the  helpless  victim  see  him  fly, 
And  stitle,  dark,  the  feebly-bursting  cry. 

Mark  ruffian  Violence,  distained  with  crimes, 

Housing  elate  in  these  degenerate  times  ; 

View  unsuspecting  Innocence  a  prey, 

As  guileful  Fraud  points  out  the  erring  way  : 

Wliile  subtle  Litigation's  pliant  tongue 

The  life-blood  equal  sucks  of  Right  and  Wrong : 

Hark,  injured  Want  recounts  th'  unlistened  tale, 

And  much-wronged  Misery  pours  th'  unpitied  wail! 

Ye  dark  waste  hills,  and  brown  unsightly  plains, 
To  you  I  sing  my  grief-inspired  strains  : 
Ye  tempests,  rage  !  ye  turbid  torrents,  roll ! 
Ye  suit  the  joyless  tenor  of  my  soul. 
Life's  social  haunts  and  pleasures  I  resign, 
Be  nameless  wilds  and  lonely  wanderings  mine, 
To  mourn  the  woes  my  country  must  endure, 
That  wound  degenerate  ages  cannot  cure. 


346         A   FAREWELL    TO   CLARINDA. 
A  FAREWELL  TO   CLARINDA, 

ON   LEAVING   EDINBURGH. 

/^LARLNDA,  mistress  of  my  soul, 

The  measured  time  is  run  ! 
The  wretch  beneath  the  dreary  pole 
So  marks  his  latest  sun. 

To  what  dark  cave  of  frozen  night 

Shall  poor  Sylvander  hie, 
Deprived  of  thee,  his  life  and  light, 

The  sun  of  all  his  joy  ? 

We  part  —  but,  by  these  precious  drops 

That  fill  thy  lovely  eyes  ! 
No  other  light  shall  guide  my  steps 

Till  thy  bright  beams  arise. 

She,  tlie  fair  sun  of  all  her  sex, 
Has  blest  my  glorious  day ; 

And  shall  a  glimmering  planet  fix 
My  worshio  to  its  ray  V 


CONTRIBUTIONS 

TO    THE    SECOND  VOLUME    OE    JOHNSON'S    MUSEUM. 


WHISTLE  AND  I'LL   COME   TO   YE,  MY  LAD. 

f\ll  whistle  and  I'll  come  to  ye,  my  lad, 

Oh  whistle  and  I  '11  come  to  ye,  my  lad  ; 
Though  father  and  mother  and  a'  should  gae  mad. 
Oh  whistle  and  I  '11  come  to  ye,  my  lad. 

Come  down  the  back  stairs  when  ye  come,  to  court 

me, 
Come  down  the  back  stairs  when  ye  come  to  court 

me, 
Come  down  the  back  stairs,  and  let  naebody  see 
And  come  as  ye  were  na  coming  to  me. 


MACPHERSON'S   FAREWELL. 
Tcne  —  l\r Pherson's  Rant. 

T^  AREWELL,  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong, 

The  wretch's  destinie  ! 
Maepherson's  time  will  not  be  long 
On  yonder  gallows-tree. 


348  STAT,  MY  CHARMER. 

Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly, 

Sae  dauntingly  gaed  he ; 
He  played  a  spring,  and  danced  it  round, 

Below  the  gallows-tree. 

Oh,  what  is  Death  but  parting  breath  ? 

On  many  a  bloody  plain 
I  've  dared  his  face,  and  in  this  place 

I  scorn  him  yet  again  ! 

Untie  these  bands  from  off  my  hands, 

And  bring  to  me  my  sword ; 
And  there 's  no  a  man  in  all  Scotland 

But  I  '11  brave  him  at  a  word. 

I  've  lived  a  life  of  sturt  and  strife  ; 

I  die  by  treacherie : 
It  burns  my  heart  I  must  depart, 

And  not  avenged  be. 

Now  farewell  light,  thou  sunshine  bright, 

And  all  beneath  the  sky ! 
May  coward  shame  distain  his  name, 

The  wretch  that  dares  not  die  1 


STAY,  MY  CHARMER. 

Tune  —  An  Grille  dubh  ciar  dhubh. 

Q  TAY,  my  charmer,  can  you  leave  me  ? 

^  Cruel,  cruel  to  deceive  me  1 

Well  you  know  how  much  you  gn'eve  me; 


STRATIIALLAN'S  LAMENT.  3J9 

Cruel  charmer,  can  you  go  ? 
Cruel  charmer,  can  you  go  ? 

By  my  love  so  ill  requited, 

By  the  faith  you  fondly  plighted, 

By  the  pangs  of  lovers  slighted, 

Do  not,  do  not  leave  me  so  ! 

Do  not,  do  not  leave  me  so ! 


STRATHALLAN'S   LAMENT. 

rpmCKEST  night,  o'erhang  my  dwelling! 

Howling  tempests,  o'er  me  rave ! 
Turbid  torrents,  wintry  swelling, 
Still  surround  my  lonely  cave !  * 

Crystal  streamlets  gently  flowing, 

Busy  haunts  of  base  mankind, 
Western  breezes  softly  blowing, 

Suit  not  my  distracted  mind. 

In  the  cause  of  right  engaged, 

Wrongs  injurious  to  redress, 
Honour's  war  we  strongly  waged, 

But  the  heavens  denied  success. 


1  Variation  in  MS.  in  possession  of  Mr.  B.  Nightingale,  Priory 
Road,  London :  — 

:l  Thickest  night,  surround  my  dwelling! 
Howling  tempests,  o'er  me  rave  ! 
Turbid  torrents,  wintry  swelling, 
Koaring  by  my  lonely  cave  1  " 


350      TEE   YOUNG  III G ELAND  ROVER 

Ruin's  wheel  has  driven  o'er  us, 
Not  a  hope  that  dare  attend : 

The  wide  world  is  all  before  us  — 
But  a  world  without  a  friend  1 


THE  YOUNG  HIGHLAND  ROVER. 

Tune—  Morag. 

T  OUD  blaw  the  frosty  breezes, 

The  snaws  the  mountains  cover ; 
Like  winter  on  me  seizes, 

Since  my  young  Highland  Rover 

Far  wanders  nations  over. 
Where'er  he  go,  where'er  lie  stray, 

May  Heaven  be  his  warden, 
Return  him  safe  to  fair  Strathspey, 

And  bonny  Castle-Gordon  ! 

The  trees  now  naked  groaning, 
Soon  shall  wi'  leaves  be  hinging, 

The  birdies  dowie  moaning, 
Shall  a'  be  blithely  singing, 
And  every  flower  be  springing. 

Sae  I  '11  rejoice  the  lee-lang  day, 
When  by  his  mighty  warden 

My  youth  's  returned  to  fair  Strathspey, 
And  bonny  Castle- Goid  on. 


MUSINU   ON  THE  ROARING    OCEAN.    851 

RAVING   WINDS   AROUND  HER  BLOWING. 
Tuxg  —  Maegregor  of  Ruara's  Lament. 

T>  AVING  winds  around  her  blowing, 

Yellow  leaves  the  woodlands  strowing, 
By  a  river  hoarsely  roaring, 
Isabella  strayed  deploring : 
"  Farewell  hours  that  late  did  measure 
Sunshine  days  of  joy  and  pleasure  ; 
Hail,  thou  gloomy  night  of  sorrow, 
Cheerless  night  that  knows  no  morrow ! 

"  O'er  the  past  too  fondly  wandering, 
On  the  hopeless  future  pondering, 
Chilly  Grief  my  life-blood  freezes, 
Fell  Despair  my  fancy  seizes. 
Life,  thou  soul  of  every  blessing, 
Load  to  Misery  most  distressing, 
Gladly  how  would  I  resign  thee, 
And  to  dark  oblivion  join  thee  !  " 


MUSING  ON  THE  ROARING  OCEAN 

Tune  —  Druimion  Dubh. 

1Yf  USING  on  the  roaring  ocean, 

Which  divides  my  love  and  me, 
Wearying  Heaven  in  warm  devotion. 
For  his  weal  where'er  he  be  ; 

Hope  and  Fear's  alternate  billow 
Yielding  late  to  Nature's  law, 


352  BONNY  PEGGY  ALISON. 

Whisp'ring  spirits  round  my  pillow 
Talk  of  him  that 's  far  awa'. 

Ye  whom  sorrow  never  wounded, 
Ye  who  never  shed  a  tear, 

Care-untroubled,  joy-surrounded, 
Gaudy  Day  to  you  is  dear. 

Gentle  Night,  do  thou  befriend  me, 
Downy  Sleep,  the  curtain  draw  ; 

Spirits  kind,  again  attend  me, 
Talk  of  him  that 's  far  awa'  I 


BONNY  PEGGY   ALISON. 

Tone  —  Braes  o'  Balquhidder. 

CHORUS. 

T  'LL  kiss  thee  yet,  yet, 

And  I'll  kiss  thee  o'er  again. 
And  I  '11  kiss  thee  yet,  yet, 
My  bonny  Peggy  Alison  ! 

Hk  care  and  fear,  when  thou  art  near. 

I  ever  mair  defy  them,  O  ! 
Young  kings  upon  their  hansel  throne 

Are  no  sae  blest  as  I  am,  O  ! 

When  in  my  arms,  wi'  a'  thj  charms, 
I  clasp  my  countless  treasure,  O, 


TO    CLARINDA.  33-3 

I  seek  nae  mair  o'  heaven  to  share 
Than  sic  a  moment's  pleasure,  O ! 

And  by  thy  e'en,  sae  bonny  blue, 

I  swear  I  'm  thine  for  ever,  O  ! 
And  on  thy  lips  I  seal  my  vow, 

And  break  it  shall  I  never,  O  ! 


TO    CLARINDA, 

WITH    A   PRESENT  OF   A  PAIR  OF    DRINKING-GLASSES. 

T^AIR  Empress  of  the  Poet's  soul, 

And  Queen  of  Poetesses, 

Clarinda,  take  this  little  boon, 

This  humble  pair  of  glasses. 

And  fill  them  high  with  generous  juice, 

As  generous  as  your  mind, 
And  pledge  me  in  the  generous  toast  — 

"  The  whole  of  humankind  I  " 

M  To  those  who  love  us  ! "  —  second  fill ; 

But  not  to  those  whom  we  love ; 
Lest  we  love  those  who  love  not  us  1 

A  third  —  "  To  thee  and  me,  love  !  " 


33 


354  TEE   CHEVALIERS  LAMENT. 

THE  CHEVALIER'S  LAMENT. 
TircfE  —  Captain  O-  Kean. 

T^HE  small  birds   rejoice   in   the  green   leaves 
returning, 
The  murmuring  streamlet  winds  clear  through 
the  vale  ; 
The  hawthorn-trees  blow  in  the  dew  of  the  morn- 
ing, 
And  wild  scattered  cowslips  bedeck  the  green 
dale : 
But  what  can  give  pleasure,  or  what  can  seem 

fair, 
While  the   lingering  moments  are  numbered  by 
care  ? 
No  flowers  gaily  springing,  nor   birds  sweetly 
singing, 
Can  soothe  the  sad  bosom  of  joyless  despair. 
The  deed  that  I  dared,  could  it  merit  their  malice, 

A  king  and  a  father  to  place  on  his  throne  ? 
His  right  are  these  hills,  and  his  right  are  these 
valleys, 
Where  the  wild  beasts  find   shelter,  but  I  can 
find  none. 
But  't  is  not  my  sufferings  thus  wretched,  forlorn ; 
My  brave  gallant  friends  !  't  is  your  ruin  I  mourn 
Your  deeds  proved  so  loyal  in  hot  bloody  trial  — > 
Alas  1  I  can  make  you  no  sweeter  return  1 


EPISTLE   TO  I1UGH  PARKER.         dob 


EPISTLE  TO  HUGH  PARKER. 

TN  this  strange  land,  this  uncouth  clime, 

A  land  unknown  to  prose  or  rhyme  ; 
Where  words  ne'er  crost  the  Muse's  heckles, 
Nor  limpet  in  poetic  shackles  ; 
A  land  that  Prose  did  never  view  it, 
Except  when  drunk  he  stacher't  through  it 
Here,  ambush'd  by  the  chimla  cheek, 
Hid  in  an  atmosphere  of  reek, 
I  hear  a  wheel  thrum  i'  the  neuk, 
I  hear  it  —  for  in  vain  I  leuk. 
The  red  peat  gleams,  a  fiery  kernel, 
Enhusked  by  a  fog  infernal : 
Here,  for  my  wonted  rhyming  raptures, 
I  sit  and  count  my  sins  by  chapters. 
For  life  and  spunk  like  ither  Christians, 
I  'm  dwindled  down  to  mere  existence ; 
Wi'  nae  converse  but  Gallowa'  bodies, 
Wi'  nae  kenn'd  face  but  Jenny  Geddeg. 
Jenny,  my  Pegasean  pride  ! 
Dowie  she  saunters  down  Nithside, 
And  aye  a  westlin  leuk  she  throws, 
While  tears  hap  o'er  her  auld  brown  nose 
Was  it  for  this,  wi'  canny  care, 
Thou  bure  the  Bard  tluough  many  a  shire  ? 
At  howes  or  hillocks  never  stumbled, 
And  late  or  early  never  grumbled  ? 
Oh,  had  I  power  like  inclination, 
I  'd  heeze  thee  up  a  constellation, 
To  canter  with  the  Sagitarre, 
Or  loup  the  ecliptic  like  a  bar  j 


356  I  LOVE  MY  JEAN. 

Or  turn  the  pole  like  any  arrow  ; 

Or,  when  auld  Phoebus  bids  good-morrow, 

Down  the  zodiac  urge  the  race, 

And  cast  dirt  on  his  godship's  face : 

For  I  could  lay  my  bread  and  kail 

He  'd  ne'er  cast  saut  upo'  thy  tail 

Wi'  a'  this  care  and  a'  this  grief, 

And  sma',  sma'  prospect  of  relief, 

And  nought  but  peat-reek  i'  my  head, 

How  can  I  write  what  ye  can  read  ? 

Torbolton,  twenty-fourth  o'  June, 

Ye  '11  find  me  in  a  better  tune  ; 

But  till  we  meet  and  weet  our  whistle, 

Tak  this  excuse  for  nae  epistle. 


I  LOVE  MT  JEAN. 
Tuns  — Mxts  Admiral  Gordon'1*  Strathspey. 

{\F  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 
^■^  I  dearly  like  the  west, 
For  there  the  bonny  lassie  lives, 
The  lassie  I  lo'e  best : 

There 's  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 
And  monie  a  hill  between  ;  * 

l  The  commencement  of  this  stanza  Is  ghren  in  Johnson' 
Museum  — 

"  There  wild  woods  grow,"  etc, 


I  LOVE   MY  JEAN.  857 

But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 
Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  and  fair ; 
I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air  : 

There  's  not  a  bonny  flower  that  springs 
By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green, 

There  's  not  a  bonny  bird  that  sings, 
But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean.1 

as  implying  the  nature  of  the  scenery  in  the  west.  In  Wood's 
Songs  of  Scotland,  the  reading  is  — 

"  Though  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 
Wi'  monie  a  hill  between, 
Baith  day  and  night,"  etc., 

evidently  an  alteration  designed  to  improve  the  logic  of  the 
verse.  It  appears  that  both  readings  are  wrong,  for  in  the  origi- 
nal manuscript  of  Burns's  contributions  to  Johnson,  in  the  pos- 
session of  Archibald  llastie,  Esq.,  the  line  is  written:  "There'* 
wild  woods  grow,"  etc.,  as  in  our  text.  Another  example  will 
serve  to  bring  this  peculiarity  of  composition  more  distinctly 
before  the  mind  of  the  reader : 

By  Auchtertyre  grows  the  aik, 
On  Yarrow  banks  the  birken  shaw  ; 

But  Phemie  was  a  bonnier  lass 
Than  braes  o'  Yarrow  ever  saw. 

1  have  been  reminded  that  the  idea  is  not  new  in  verse : 
"  ina.7)  fiuXa  no?J.a  uerat-i) 
Ovpeu  re  cKUievra,  •dakaaaa  te  Tjxhzaaa." 

Iliad,  i.  156. 

1  The  first  of  these  stanzas  appeared  in  the  third  volume  of 
Johnson's  Museum.  Burns's  note  upon  it  afterwards  was:  "This 
song  I  composed  out  of  compliment  to  Mrs.  Burns.  N.  B. —  It 
was  in  the  honeymoon."  Two  additional  stanzas  were  som* 
years  afterwards  produced  by  John  Ilamilton,  music-seller  in 
Edinburgh  : 

0  blaw,  ye  westlin'  winds,  blaw  saft, 
Amang  the  leafy  trues, 


358  /  LOVE  MY  JEAN. 

Wi'  balmy  gale,  frae  hill  and  dale 
Bring  hame  the  laden  bees ; 

And  bring  the  lassie  back  to  me 
That  \s  aye  sae  neat  and  clean  ; 

Ae  smile  o'  her  wad  banish  care, 
Sae  charming  is  my  Jean. 

What  sighs  and  vows  amang  the  knowes 

Hae  passed  atween  us  twa ! 
How  fond  to  meet,  how  wae  to  part, 

That  night  she  gaed  awa'  ! 
The  powers  aboon  can  only  ken, 

To  whom  the  heart  is  seen, 
That  nane  can  be  sae  dear  to  me 

As  my  sweet  lovely  Jean. 


APPENDIX. 


ADDITIONAL  STANZAS  OF  "THE  VISION." 

IN  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  of  January  15,  1787,  Bums 
speaks  of  certain  stanzas  of  The  Vision  which  he  had 
omitted  from  the  printed  copy.  A  manuscript  of  ten 
leaves,  in  Bums's  handwriting,  has  been  preserved,  which 
contains  The  Vision  unabridged,  as  it  stood  in  1786 — The 
Gloomy  Night  is  Gathering  Fast  —  The  Lass  of  Ballochmyle 
—  My  Nannie,  0  —  Handsome  Nell — Song  In  (he  Charac- 
ter of  a  Ruined  Farmer —  Song,  TJirmgh  Cruel  Fate  should 
bid  us  Part  —  and  Misgivings  of  Despondency  on  the  Ap- 
l/roach  of  the  Gloomy  Monarch  of  the  Grave  ;  all  of  them 
being  poems  which  did  not  appear  in  the  first  edition,  but 
most  of  which  were  inserted  in  the  Edinburgh,  or  second 
edition.  From  allusions,  the  MS.  was  undoubtedly  writ- 
ten after  July,  1786,  and  before  the  Edinburgh  edition 
came  out.  By  the  liberality  of  Mr.  Dick,  bookseller,  Ayr, 
present  proprietor  of  the  MS.,  we  are  enabled  to  present 
Buch  portions  of  its  contents  as  have  not  seen  the  light. 

After  18th  stanza  of  printed  copies: 

With  secret  throes  I  marked  that  earth, 
That  cottage,  witness  of  my  birth ; 
And  near  I  saw,  bold  issuing  forth 

In  youthful  pride, 
A  Lindsay,  race  of  noble  worth. 

Famed  far  and  wide. 

Where,  hid  behind  a  spreading  wood, 
An  ancient  Pict-built  mansion  stood, 
I  spied,  among  an  angel  brood, 
A  female  pair- 


360  ADDITIONAL    STANZAS 

Sweet  shone  their  high  maternal  blood. 
And  father's  air. 

An  ancient  tower  to  memory  brought 
How  Dettingen's  bold  hero  fought; 
Still  far  from  sinking  into  nought, 

It  owns  a  lord 
Win  "  far  in  western"  climates  fought, 

With  trusty  sword. 

There,  where  a  sceptred  Pictish  shade 
Stalked  round  his  ashes  lowly  laid, 
I  saw  a  martial  race  portrayed 

In  colours  strong; 
Bold,  sodger-featured,  undismayed, 

They  stalked  along. 

Among  the  rest  I  well  could  spy 
One  gallant,  graceful,  martial  boy, 
The  sodger  sparkled  in  his  eye, 

A  diamond  water; 
I  blest  that  noble  badge  with  joy 

That  owned  ms/rater. 

After  the  20th  stanza : 

Near  by  arose  a  mansion  fine, 
The  seat  of  many  a  muse  divine ; 
Not  rustic  muses  such  as  mine, 

With  holly  crowned, 
But  th'  ancient,  tuneful,  laurelled  Nine, 

From  classic  ground. 

I  mourned  the  card  that  Fortune  dealt, 
To  see  where  bonny  Whitefoords  dwelt; 
But  other  prospects  made  me  melt, 

That  village  near; 
There  Nature,  Friendship,  Love  I  felt, 

Fond-mingling  dear. 

Hail !  Nature's  pang,  more  strong  than  death, 
Warm  friendship's  glow,  like  kindling  wrath, 
Love,  dearer  than  the  parting  breath 

Of  dying  friend ! 
u  Not  even  "  with  life's  wild  devious  path, 

Your  force  shall  end ! 


OF  "THJi   VISION."  301 

The  power  that  pave  the  soft  alarms, 
In  blooming  Whitelbord's  rosy  charms. 
Still  threats  the  tiny-feathered  arms 

The  barbed  dart, 
While  lovely  Wilhelmina  warms 

The  coldest  heart. 


After  the  21st : 


Where  Lugar  leaves  his  moorland  plaid, 
Where  lately  Want  was  idly  laid, 
I  marked  busy,  bustling  Trade, 

In  fervid  flame, 
Beneath  a  patroness's  aid, 

Of  noble  name; 

While  countless  hills  I  could  survey, 
And  countless  flocks  as  well  as  they; 
But  other  scenes  did  charms  display, 

That  better  please, 
Where  polished  manners  dwelt  with  Gray 

In  rural  ease. 

Where  Cessnock  pours  with  gurgling  sound, 
And  Irwine,  marking  out  the  bound, 
Enamoured  of  the  scenes  around, 

Slow  runs  his  race, 
A  name  I  doublv  honoured  found, 

With  knightly  grace. 

Brydone's  brave  ward,  I  saw  him  stand, 
Fame  humbly  ottering  her  hand; 
And  near  his  kinsman's  rustic  band, 

With  one  accord, 
Lamenting  their  late  blessed  laud 

Must  change  its  lord. 

The  owner  of  a  pleasant  spot, 
Near  sandy  wilds  I  did  him  note; 
A  heart  too  warm,  a  pulse  too  hot, 

At  times  o'erran; 
But  large  in  every  feature  wrote, 

Appeared  the  man. 


362        SONG   OF  A    RUINED  FARMER. 
SONG, 

1H  THE  CHARACTER  OF  A   RUINED   FARMER. 

Tune  —  Go  from  my  window,  Love,  do. 

THE  sun  he  is  sunk  in  the  west, 
All  creatures  retired  to  rest, 
While  here  I  sit  all  sore  beset 

With  sorrow,  grief,  and  wo; 
And  it 's  0,  fickle  Fortune,  0 ! 

The  prosperous  man  is  asleep, 

Nor  hears  how  the  whirlwinds  sweep; 

But  Misery  and  I  must  watch 

The  surly  tempest  blow: 
And  it 's  0,  fickle  Fortune,  O ! 

There  lies  the  dear  partner  of  my  breast, 
Her  cares  for  a  moment  at  rest: 
Must  I  see  thee,  my  youthful  pride, 

Thus  brought  so  very  low ! 
And  it's  0,  fickle  Fortune,  O ! 

There  lie  my  sweet  babies  in  her  arms, 
No  anxious  fear  their  little  heart  alarms; 
But  for  their  sake  my  heart  doth  ache, 
With  many  a  bitter  throe: 
And  it's  0,  fickle  Fortune,  0 ! 

I  once  was  by  Fortune  carest, 
I  once  could  relieve  the  distrest: 
Now,  life's  poor  support  hardly  earned, 

My  fate  will  scarce  bestow: 
And  it 's  O,  fickle  Fortune,  0  ! 

No  comfort,  no  comfort  I  have ! 
How  welcome  to  me  were  the  grave  1 
But  then  my  wife  and  children  dear, 

0  whither  would  they  go? 
And  it 's  O  fickle  Fortune,  0 ! 


SO\'<i    OF  A   RUINED  FARMER.        303 

O  whither,  0  whither  shall  I  turn! 
All  friendless,  forsaken,  forlorn ! 
For  in  this  world  Kest  or  Peace 

I  never  more  shall  know! 
And  it 'a  O,  fickle  Fortune  O! 


END    OF    VOL.    I. 


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